GRISSOM STUDIED THE BODY of the millipede with a magnifying glass. He’d hoped to find something that might tell him where the arthropod had originated, some trace on one of its many legs perhaps, but so far his search had proven disappointing.
“So,” said Brass, strolling into the lab, “this is the part where you tell me the bug you’re examining is found solely in one corner of North A f r ica and is only eaten by blue-crested finches.”
Grissom glanced up. “I’m afraid not. The cyanide millipede is extremely common in the Pacific Northwest, found in forests from California to Alaska. They may not be from around here, but that doesn’t mean they’re difficult to obtain.”
Brass shrugged. “Worth a shot. You really think one of your fellow experts could be our killer?”
Grissom shrugged back. “It’s certainly possible. Their presence here at the same time a very singular method of homicide turns up-well, the coincidence seems unlikely.”
“Uh-huh.” Brass looked away. “And how are you doing? You okay with all this?”
Grissom frowned. “You mean deceiving my colleagues?”
“Yeah, that.”
He considered the question for a moment before answering. “Jim, you know as well as I do that any time an outsider tries to involve himself in an investigation that the probability he’s who we’re looking for shoots up. It’s why we take pictures of crowds at arson fires or funerals of homicide victims. Besides, only seven attendees arrived for the conference early-and the alibis of the other three checked out, correct?”
“I know it makes sense. But still-they are your peers.”
Grissom shook his head. “That’s irrelevant. If one of them is a killer, lying in order to catch him hardly seems like a breach of professional ethics.”
“And how about the two-sorry, three-who aren’t?”
“They’ll have experienced being on the inside of a police investigation into a murder. I doubt they’ll be offended.” He paused. “Well, maybe Quadros will. He seems a little touchy.”
“Which brings me to my next question: how well do you know these guys?”
“Not well, I suppose. I’ve known Jake Soames for years, but we see each other only at conferences. I’ve met Khem Charong only twice before. Nathan Vanderhoff and Roberto Quadros I’ve only corresponded with online.”
“Any of them strike you as the homicidal type?”
“No. But we both know it’s hardly ever that easy.” Grissom frowned. “I’ve never understood the psychology of protecting your own social circle at all costs. I’ve seen it many times-especially in law enforcement-but it still seems counterintuitive. You’d think that if on e of your own went bad, you’d see their removal as desirable.”
“That’s because you have no guilt in your soul,” said Brass. “It’s a lot easier to chuck rocks when your house isn’t made out of glass. And, Grissom, you practically live in a bunker.”
“That’s not true, Jim.” Grissom’s frown turned into a wry smile. “You know perfectly well I live in a townhouse.”
Greg opened his eyes.
The first thing he saw was a woman standing over him. She wore red cowboy boots, jeans, a plaid shirt, and a red Stetson over long, honey-colored hair.
“Are… are you an angel?” said Greg.
The woman grinned, then turned and called over her shoulder, “Hey, Neal! I think you musta shot him in the head!”
“Nah, Miss Tracy. I got him right in the ticker. Twice.”
Greg propped himself up on an elbow and pulled off the protective mask that covered his face. “Technically, you only got me once in the heart. Your other shot was wide.”
The man who’d shot him strolled up, twirling his own six-gun on one finger. He was dressed much the same as the woman but favored black over red; that included a black leather vest, a black hat, and a ferociously bushy black mustache. “Technically? Kid, dead is d ead. Ain’t nothin’ technical ’bout it-the word you want is technique. As in mine is unbeatable and yours just got beat.”
“All right, you got me,” Greg admitted as he got to his feet. “But to be fair, I’m not used to this gun. If I’d been using my own, things would have been different.”
“Mebbe,” Neal said. “Guess we’ll never know.”
Greg glanced around. He, Neal, and Miss Tracy stood in the middle of a broad, dusty street. Ramshackle wooden buildings lined either side, with hitching posts outside most of them. “Wind’s picking up,” said Tracy. “Reckon we should head indoors.”
“Lead on,” said Greg.
“Indoors” was the interior of a 2005 Suncruiser Winnebago, complete with kitchen, shower, and satellite TV system. It was decorated in an Old West motif: knotty pine wallpaper, antique table and chairs, saloon doors in the hall between the bedrooms and the living area. Tracy sat down at the table, while Neal put on some coffee.
“I gotta say,” said Greg, “that when I got up today I didn’t expect to be getting shot. Even by wax bullets while wearing a vest-which, by the way, is more painful than I expected.”
Tracy chuckled. She was a tall, rangy woman with a spray of freckles across her nose. “Well, you said you wanted to know what it was like. Now you do.”
“Yes, I do,” Greg said ruefully. “But it was worth it-how m any times does a guy get a chance to actually play cowboy?”
“If you’re us,” said Neal, “all the time.” He drew his pistol, twirled it around in a complicated and impressive way, then stuck it back in its holster.
“Quit showing off,” said Tracy. “You already killed him, remember?”
Neal nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Don’t take it too hard, kid. I spend as much time practicing my draw as you probably do flossing your teeth.”
“To give you a proper answer,” said Tracy, “the Quick Shooters Society does not actually endorse shooting cowboys. In fact, we’d probably get in a fair bit of trouble for what we just did, so we’d appreciate it if you didn’t spread that around. Gunfights are fun, but they’re dangerous unless you know what you’re doing. Mostly we shoot at targets.”
“Fair enough. Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, how about telling me about your ammo?”
Tracy nodded. “We use wax bullets, loaded with black or smokeless powder for the primer. Once the bullet’s pressed into place, you stick a shotgun primer into the hole that’s been countersunk at the base of the shell.”
“Or you could use a twenty-two blank,” said Neal. “There, the hole’s drilled off to one side-twenty-two’s a rimfire.”
“Okay. Now, the bullets themselves-you two make them in bulk, right?”
“Sure,” said Tracy. “Have a nice little mail-order business going. Approved by the World Fast Draw Association and the CSS. Wax bullets are cheap and easy to make-we turn ’em out by the hundreds.”
“And they make you a whole lot less dead if you accidentally shoot yourself while trying out a fancy new draw,” said Neal. “They don’t penetrate walls, so you can even use ’em indoors.”
“Can I see where you make them?”
“Follow me, greenhorn,” said Neal.
He led Greg out of the RV and to a wooden shack in a little better shape than most of the other buildings; it had a hand-lettered sign over the door that read BLACKSMITH. Inside, cartons of cardboard boxes labeled PARAFFIN were stacked against one wall, while a pair of propane camp stoves with several large iron pots on them rested on a plain wooden table. The casts for the bullets were on another table, just two long wooden boards clamped together with a row of holes drilled along the seam so that the bullets could be removed easily when the boards were unclamped.
“We like to keep it simple,” said Neal.
“Ever had any of your wax stolen?”
Neal shook his head. “By who? Candle rustlers?”
“How about the excess? How do you get rid of it?”
“What excess? The only thing that gets lost is a few scrapings here and there, and we just s weep ’em up and put ’em back in the pot. About all that goes to waste are the shards that spray when the slug hits a target-and even that mostly sticks to the surface; we scrape off what we can and reuse it.”
Greg sighed. “Thanks for your time. Looks like all I’m doing today is shooting blanks…”
“Greg,” said Catherine. “How’d your field trip go?”
Greg groaned and sank into a chair next to the layout table. “I’ll never be able to watch The Karate Kid again. Wax on, wax off, wax up and down and inside out. I now know far more about the furniture polish, artificial fruit, and turbine-blade industries than I ever wanted to.”
“And?”
“No leads. My best guess is that our lava cook was scavenging leftovers from industrial Dump-sters-wax isn’t terribly toxic stuff, so regulations concerning its disposal are pretty lax. Lax on wax, those are the facts.”
“Well, I just got back from Kanamu’s residence -and it wasn’t what I expected.” She told him about the suite.
”So,” Greg said, “Kanamu obviously moved up in the world in the last six months. Any idea how?”
“Nothing obvious. I did find these, though.”
She looked down at the objects on the layout table: a small butane torch, a pill bottle, and a glass pipe, the bubble at one end charred from use.
Greg straightened up in his chair. “A meth pipe. Well, we already knew he was a user.”
Catherine picked up the pill bottle. “Triazolam.”
“A benzodiazepine? Lot of meth heads use it to ease their comedown.”
“True-but not many have a prescription for it, at least not in their own name.” She tapped the bottle with a finger. “I recognized the prescribing doctor, Henry Oki. He was involved in a case last year, hooker who overdosed on sleeping pills. Seems like Dr. Oki isn’t too choosy about who he hands scrips out to.”
“Guess we should have a talk with him. Think his high level of professional ethics extends to patient confidentiality?”
“He’s not going to want to implicate himself, obviously. But I’m betting he’ll be pretty quick to point us in another direction if we ask nicely-especially if it’ll take the spotlight off him.”
Greg grinned. “A little sweet talk, a few implied threats? Works for me. You bring the carrot, I’ll get the stick.”
Catherine smiled. “Try again.”
Greg’s smile turned rueful. “Okay, you bring the stick. Hey, if I have the carrot, does that mean I can say ‘What’s up-’ ”
“No.”
“I really want to thank you once again,” said Brass. He smiled at Nathan Vanderhoff, who was seated on the other side of Brass’s desk. “I mean, it’s kind of phenomenal, having these kinds of resources to draw on. We’re very lucky.”
Vanderhoff nodded and leaned back, crossing his legs. “Again, we’re happy to offer our assistance. Is Mr. Grissom going to be joining us?”
“He’ll be here in a few minutes-had something to do in the lab. I thought I’d take the opportunity to talk to you first, before everyone else shows up.”
Vanderhoff’s smile was friendly but puzzled. “Oh?”
“Yeah. See-and don’t tell Grissom I said this-I sometimes feel as if, well, as if I don’t know whether or not Grissom’s as good as he seems.”
“I don’t follow.”
Brass leaned forward, put his elbows on the desk. “It’s not like there are a lot of bug experts available, you know? So we use what we’ve got. I’m not saying Grissom isn’t good, but-well, you guys are world-class. I’ve looked at your credentials, and they’re impressive.”
Vanderhoff chuckled. “Thank you for the compliment, but I assure you that Mr. Grissom is a highly respected member of our community. He’s certainly ‘world-class’ himself.”
“I guess. Still, a fresh perspective can be invaluable. You’ve been given the rundown on the case-what’s your take?”
Vanderhoff nodded. “Most intriguing. There are many poisonous insects the perpetrator could have chosen, yet he picked millipedes. He clearly has some knowledge of entomology, but he-or she, I su ppose-is not necessarily an expert. Harpaphe haydeniana may seem exotic to the layman, but they’re quite common. The fact that they were used at all seems significant to me-after all, the plastic bag itself would have been lethal, would it not?”
Brass nodded. “We noticed that, too. Obviously, the bug thing has some symbolic value.”
Vanderhoff shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Perhaps. Unfortunately, I’m an entomologist, not a psychiatrist…”
“Dr. Charong,” said Brass, “I understand you’re interested in helping out the Las Vegas Police Department.”
Khem Charong nodded. His posture was stiff and formal, his hands folded demurely in his lap. “How could I resist? My colleagues will talk of nothing else.”
“I see. Well, thank you for coming in. I just have a few quick questions, if you don’t mind.”
Charong cleared his throat. “Of course not. Go ahead.”
“You’re a researcher in Thailand?”
“That’s correct.”
“Must be a lot of bugs in the jungle out there.”
“Yes, Thailand has some of the richest biodiversity on the planet. It is a fascinating place in which to work.”
“You must go to some pretty remote locations, am I right?”
“I suppose that I do. It is very rewarding, though.”
“I’m a city boy myself. Don’t think I could give up the bright lights for a tent and a campfire. Still, I guess you’ve got a good excuse to cut loose when you get back to civilization.”
“I’m sorry?”
“You know, make up for lost time. Party like a wild man.”
“That is… not really my style.”
Brass frowned. “No? Sorry, my mistake-in Vegas, we learn it’s always the quiet ones who tend to wind up making the biggest noise. You didn’t have any problems entering the country, did you?”
Charong blinked. “What?”
“You know-scientist, bioterrorism, twenty-first-century paranoia? You wouldn’t believe some of the horror stories I’ve heard, people being denied entry for the most ridiculous reasons.”
“I-no, I had no trouble.”
“Well, that’s good.” Brass favored him with a big, friendly smile. “I mean, if you had, you wouldn’t be here, would you?”
“Where is Dr. Grissom?” Roberto Quadros demanded.
“He’ll be here in a minute,” Brass said. “Why don’t you sit down-”
“What is this? Why am I being treated so rudely? I expected Dr. Grissom to be here to greet me. And where are my colleagues?” Quadros shook his head, his bushy white beard bouncing from side to side. “He’s already discussing the case with them, isn’t he! Just because I disagreed with him on the overwintering capabilities of Acherontia atropos!”
“Calm down, Doctor. Grissom’ll be here soon. I had no idea there was bad blood between you two.”
Quadros took a deep breath and let it out. “I apologize. I have nothing but the utmost respect for Dr. Grissom. I’m afraid I’m simply… not very good with social situations. Never have been.”
“Then you and Grissom have something in common-though he does tend to go more the internalization route.”
Quadros sighed. “Indeed. A true scientist-one in control of his emotions, instead of the other way around.”
“Oh, everybody needs to blow off a little steam now and then-even Grissom.”
Quadros shook his head. “A scientist doesn’t ‘blow off steam,’ Captain Brass. That would be a waste of thermodynamic energy…”
“I gotta thank you once more for helping us out,” Brass said.
Jake Soames grinned and shook Brass’s hand before sitting down. “Glad to help.”
“Good, good. Y’know, Grissom’s a real smart guy, but honestly, sometimes what he says goes right over my head. It’ll be nice to have someone around to explain things to me in plain language…”
“How’d you play it?” Grissom asked.
Brass blew on his coffee, took a sip before answering. He and Grissom were in the CSI break room, while the four entomologists waited in the reception area. “Different for each guy. You know how it is with suspects; learn as much as you can about them beforehand, then see how they act and trust your instincts.”
“How’d they do?”
“Let’s see. Charong’s uncomfortable around authority, Quadros has a chip on his shoulder the size of the MGM Grand, Vanderhoff thinks he’s the smartest guy in the room, and Soames is just a good ol’ boy who wants everyone to like him. That’s about all I got. Ready for your part?”
“ ‘All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; and one man in his time plays many parts.’ ”
Brass got to his feet. “Come on, Shakespeare. Showtime.”
Lucas Yannick’s home wasn’t much to look at, a ranch-style bungalow with peeling paint, missing roof tiles, and a yard that was more weeds than lawn. Plastic toys were scattered on the sidewalk leading up to the house, and a bicycle with a flat tire was chained to the fron t porch.
Riley knocked briskly on the front door. She could hear kids yelling inside and a TV blaring. A woman’s voice yelled, “Lucas! Get the door!”
The boy who opened the door was pale and skinny, his dark hair in the pointy style known as a faux-hawk. He wore glasses with cheap plastic frames and a black T-shirt with a heavy-metal band logo on it. He took in Riley’s CSI vest and cap and frowned. “Uh, hello?” he said.
“Hi. You must be Lucas. Can you tell your mom I need to talk to her?”
Lucas blinked. If he was nervous, it didn’t show. “Mom!” he yelled over his shoulder. “There’s a policewoman here to see you!”
“Actually, I’m a crime scene investigator,” said Riley.
“Yeah?” Lucas said. “Cool. You guys have to know about insects, right? Like, in bodies and stuff?”
“That’s right,” said Riley.
Mrs. Yannick appeared, holding a baby in her arms. She was a tall, bony woman, wearing pajamas, and looked both wary and tired. Her nose was very red, and she clutched a tissue in one hand.
“What’s this about?” Mrs. Yannick asked. Lucas had already disappeared.
“Actually, it’s about Lucas,” said Riley. “I need your permission to talk to him. I’m investigating the incident at school.”
“Lucas wasn’t involved in that. It was all a bunch of jocks and hotheads.” She blew her nose. “Excuse me.”
“I know he wasn’t directly involved in the riot,” Riley said carefully. “But we collect a lot of information in the course of an investigation and never know which piece of the puzzle will turn out to be important. You can be present while I talk to him-”
Mrs. Yannick sneezed, then said, “Sorry. Look, I don’t want to give you this cold, so just go ahead and talk to him. He’s a good kid, he won’t give you any attitude.”
“Thank you.”
Riley followed the direction his mother pointed in and found Lucas in his bedroom. His interest in things that crept obviously extended to more than just scorpions; there were three terrariums along one wall, though none of their occupants were visible at the moment.
“Hi, Lucas. Can I come in?”
He was sitting upright in bed, reading a comic-Spider-Man, of course. “Yeah, sure.”
She looked around for somewhere to sit down, saw only a chair heaped with clothes, and decided to stand. “What’s in the tanks?”
He pointed at each in turn. “That one has a striped scorpion, that one a Chilean rose-haired tarantula, and the one on the end’s empty. It had a praying mantis, but it died.”
“Gonna replace it?”
“I dunno. Maybe. I was thinking about getting something different.”
“Like a millipede?” She kept her face neutral but watched his carefully.
He thought about it, then shrugged. His face gave away nothing.
“So. I guess you know all about what happened at your school.”
“I heard about it, yeah. All the jocks were really angry about Keenan. A lot of girls were crying. I don’t know whose idea it was to go over to Carston, though.” Now there was an edge of nervousness in his voice.
“Did you see the graffiti?”
“Yeah. I mean, it was right there, everybody saw it. Nobody thought it was serious, not at first. Then someone heard the news.”
“How are you taking all this?”
“I’m okay. I mean, they say they’re gonna have counselors come in and talk to us, but that’s-I guess that’s for people who really knew him.”
“You didn’t?”
“Not really.” He hesitated.
Riley waited; it was one of the best methods she knew of to get someone to talk.
“Actually, he was kind of a jerk,” he said after a moment, glancing at her to see how she’d take it.
“Not a big surprise,” she said. “Football star, right? I knew a few guys li ke that in high school. None of them impressed me.”
“They all act like they own the world and you’re supposed to pay rent,” he said. A little anger had sparked in his tone. “It’s like, they already have everything, but they have to find something of yours to take away. Even if it isn’t something they want-they just like taking it away.”
“I know. Well, Keenan’s days of taking things away are over.”
“He wasn’t the worst. I mean, yeah, he was a jerk, but he didn’t go out of his way to make my life hard. Not like some of the other guys.” He met her eyes. “You know what? When I heard he was dead, I felt sad just like everybody else. But then I started thinking about it, and I was glad. Not that he was dead… but that all his friends were hurting. Because somebody finally took something away from them.”
“Gentlemen, this is Nick Stokes,” said Grissom. “Nick, this is Professor Nathan Vanderhoff, Doctor Roberto Quadros, Doctor Jake Soames, and Doctor Khem Charong.”
Nick smiled broadly and shook everyone’s hand in turn. “Grissom tells me you’re going to be lending us a hand. We appreciate the help.”
Nick knew what was going on and understood the reasoning behind it. They were taking things one step farther than normal, though, by actually letting suspects into the lab-it was Brass who’d com e up with the idea of giving the killer enough rope to hang himself with by allowing access to the inner workings of the investigation. This guy obviously has a scientific bent, he’d said. We let him roam around and touch the equipment, he might give himself away.
Nick had suggested they could do even better. They could lay a trap.
“Over here is our fingerprint lab,” said Nick, leading the experts through the facility. “That’s Mandy, one of our techs. And here’s where we analyze DNA.”
Wendy Simms, an attractive, brown-eyed brunette, looked up when they entered. “What’s up, Nick?”
He performed another round of quick introductions. “They’re here to consult on the Harribold case-you know, the one with the millipedes.”
Wendy nodded. “Right. I was just running the DNA on that.” She held up a glass slide, then carefully set it aside.
“Yeah, we got lucky,” said Nick. “Found a hair caught in one of the handcuffs that didn’t match the vic. We’re hoping we can match it to one of our databases.”
“Excuse me,” said Khem Charong. “Isn’t it quite difficult to derive a DNA sample from human hair?”
Wendy smiled. “It depends. In this case, we got a follicular tag, a layer of skin around the root. It should give us all the informati on we need.”
“Sounds like you might not need us after all,” said Soames.
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Nick. “Grissom thinks you’ll be a big help…”
“And this,” said Nick, “is Hodges.”
Hodges crossed his arms. “What are all these people doing in my lab?” he said with a pleasant smile.
Nick took him by the arm and led him a short distance away. “Look, don’t make a fuss, okay?” he said under his breath. “This is only temporary-”
“What’s only temporary? What’s going on?” His eyes widened. “OMG. They’re outsourcing my position, aren’t they?”
“No, that’s not it.” Nick paused. “Did you just say OMG?”
“I’ve been texting a lot lately. Is the lab being sold?”
“It’s a government facility, Hodges.”
“So what-everybody knows privatization is the wave of the future. Are those our new corporate masters?”
Nick rolled his eyes and gave up. “Yes, Hodges, that’s who they are. One of them’s an eccentric billionaire with a passion for science, and the other three are his entourage. Treat them nicely or they’ll make you play the new corporate mascot.”
“We’re going to have a mascot?”
They rejoine d the others. “Mr. Hodges is our expert when it comes to trace. He’s currently busy on another case, so-”
“I’d just like to say,” Hodges blurted, “that I really admire Richard Branson.”
They all stared at him.
“And that if the application period isn’t over, I’d appreciate being allowed to offer a few ideas in the mascot arena. I mean, something obvious like a talking DNA spiral or giant fingerprint might seem like a good idea up front, but something based on trace evidence offers far more possibilities-”
Grissom, who’d been standing in the back, stepped forward and cleared his throat. Hodges shut up.
As the scientists filtered out of the Trace lab, Nick whispered to Grissom, “Maybe we should have told him.”
“Have you ever seen Hodges act?” said Grissom. “The real thing may be odd, but at least it’s genuine.”
Grissom thanked all of them for coming in and assured them he would keep them apprised of the investigation. They filed out together, Soames already suggesting they adjourn to a bar. Only Nathan Vanderhoff lagged behind, turning at the last instant to retrace his steps to Grissom’s office.
“Gil? A moment of your time?”
“Of course, Nathan . What is it?”
“Something that occurred to me about the case. I was hesitant to bring it up while the others were around; it seemed presumptuous of me. Foolish, I know-you did say any insights were appreciated.”
“That I did. You have one?”
“Perhaps. It has to do not so much with the method of homicide as the resulting effect.”
“The riot.”
“Yes. And how the news of the murder was disseminated: the graffiti. Many social insects like bees and ants use chemical markers to communicate, and that’s what the graffiti reminded me of.”
Grissom nodded. “Leading to the victim’s school attacking its rival-like one anthill raiding another.”
“Yes. It may simply be my admittedly biased perspective as an entomologist, of course, but I thought I should mention it.”
“Thank you, Nathan. I appreciate the input.”
“My pleasure.” He nodded his head good-bye and left.
Grissom kept his eyes on Vanderhoff’s back until he was out of sight.
“Dr. Oki,” said Catherine, “thank you for coming in. Saves us the trouble of a warrant.”
Oki looked at Catherine. Then he looked at Greg. Then he looked back at Catherine. His face held as much expression as an ice cube held heat. He wore a short-sleeved brown shirt, and his hair was dyed a reddish blond.
“No problem,” he said.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far,” said Catherine. “Another one of your patients has wound up in our morgue. I’d say that’s a pr oblem.”
“People die,” he said. His voice was as impassive as his face.
“Good thing, too,” said Catherine. “Otherwise I’d be out of a job. But your job is supposed to be keeping them alive. Not very good at it, are you?”
“I get by.”
Catherine gave him a slow smile. She loved a challenge. “Right. So far, that’s exactly what you’ve done. But I’m about to put up a big red stop sign, Doctor-one with you on one side and your medical license on the other. Think you’ll still be able to get by after that?”
His expression didn’t change-but he didn’t reply, either. She chalked that up as one for her side.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” said Greg. “All we’re after is a little cooperation. We get it, you can go back to prescribing diet pills and sleep aids to Z-grade celebrities.”
“What do you want?”
Catherine pushed a photo at him. “Hal Kanamu. We know you were supplying him with triazolam, and we know why. We were hoping you could supply a little context, too.”
Something tugged at the corner of Oki’s mouth, like an invisible fishing hook trying to pull him toward the ceiling. He fought it bravely. “What do you want, his biography? I didn’t know him that well. I knew The Story”-Catherine could hear the capital letters-“but everyone knew that. His one claim to fame.”
“Enlighten us,” said Catherine.
Two more unseen hooks snagged Oki’s eyebrows and pulled. “You don’t know? Huh. Well, okay. I can’t tell it the way he could, but then I’m not trying to charm my way into your pants.”
“Good call,” said Greg.
“It’s like this. Kanamu was a loser-or used to be, anyway. But then he makes this crazy-ass bet and it pays off.”
“What kind of bet?” asked Catherine.
“A props bet. You know, like what’ll come up at the coin toss for the Superbowl, heads or tails. There’s all kinds of things you can gamble on, including some really bizarre stuff.”
“Sure,” said Greg. “I heard a guy bet a vegetarian ten grand he wouldn’t eat a cheeseburger. He lost.”
“Yeah, well, Kanamu didn’t. He placed an entertainment bet-you know, like who’ll win American Idol or get voted off the island first-at five hundred to one.”
“What was the bet?” Catherine asked.
“That the teen actress Kendall Marigold would not only lose her virginity out of wedlock before the end of the year, she’d announce it on national television.”
“He predicted that?” Catherine asked. “Talk about a long shot-she was the spokesperson for the Save Yourself for Marr iage organization.”
“Emphasis on was,” said Oki. “It was tabloid gold for about two weeks, but it made even more money for Kanamu. He went around telling everyone he’d had a vision, which is why he placed the bet. The sportsbook who took the wager tried to say he must have had inside information, but an investigation couldn’t find any link. They paid up.”
“So Kanamu stopped hauling bus pans,” said Greg.
“And started popping pills,” said Catherine.
“Hey, I was just trying to help him out. I met him at a party and he was all wired on meth. Told me he wanted to get clean, but he needed a parachute, give him a soft landing.”
“You’re a real humanitarian,” said Catherine. “But now he’s dead. Any idea how that might have happened?”
“I thought that was your job.”
“It is,” said Catherine. “And unlike you, I’m very good at mine. Any idea where he was getting the meth?”
“I’m a doctor, not a dealer. I don’t have any connection to that kind of world.”
“Except for the hookers and junkies you meet at parties,” said Greg.
“Are we done?”
“For now,” said Catherine. “We’ll be in touch.”
After Oki had left, Greg turned to Catherine and said, “Well, well. The specter of the virgin sacrifice rears its head again.”
“It’s just a coincidence, Greg.”
“Offered on th e altar of public media. Thrown into the volcano of… okay, the metaphor kind of breaks down there. But it is interesting.”
“Only to someone who watches too much Entertainment Tonight. And what was with that ‘hookers and junkies’ crack? I’m the one who was supposed to be carrying the stick, remember?”
“Right. Sorry. I guess I forgot about my carrot.” He paused. “And now I’m really, really sorry I just said that…”
The sportsbook who had taken Hal Kanamu’s long-shot props bet was located in the Las Vegas Golden Sapphire Casino. There were over one hundred and fifty legal sportsbook operations in the U.S., and every one of them was run out of a Nevada casino. The Diamond had a reputation for taking some of the more outrageous or unusual props bets, especially ones dealing with Hollywood or music celebrities; Catherine remembered reading that the sportsbook gave odds last year on which female celebrity would be the next to have a photo published displaying a personal disdain for wearing underwear in public.
The room the sportsbook was based in was high-ceilinged and resembled a NASA control room; panels of high-definition monitors gridded one wall, while row after ro w of computers were lined up facing them. The computers were for online betting, while the TV screens showed everything from horse races to hockey. Betting windows lined one wall, and computerized odds boards another. A lounge with comfortable chairs took up one corner.
Catherine stood in the doorway and looked around for a moment before going in. She smiled, then dug a tissue out of her pocket and wiped her eyes. Places like this might look like they were getting ready for a shuttle launch, but that wasn’t what they made her think of.
She found the man she’d come to see at one of the tables in the lounge area. He was a stocky man with curly blond hair, dressed in gray sweatpants and a New York Yankees jersey, watching one of the games playing out on the wall of screens. It was hard to tell which one; his eyes kept shifting from one side to the other, his head tilting first up then down.
“Come on, come on,” he muttered. “No, don’t put him in, that’s suicide-shoot! Shoot, damn it! No, don’t throw it to him, are you nuts?”
“Excuse me,” said Catherine.
His glance flickered to her for all of half a second, then back to the screens. “What can I do for you? Go, baby, go! Yeah!”
“How about giving me your undivided attention for a minute?” she said, and waved her badge in front of his eyes like a dog owner dangling a treat.
It worked. He looked over s harply, seemed to really see her for the first time, and gave her a cheerful, disarming smile. “Right! Sorry, I’m at work; it can get a little hectic here in the office.”
She smiled back. “I’ll bet.”
“Yeah? How much, and on what?”
“You’re Frankie Thermopolis, right?”
“Hey, that’s a gimme. No odds on that one, except maybe the exact day my heart gives out. Give you five to one it’s on a weekend-even money if we’re on a date.”
She laughed. “That your idea of romantic, Frankie? Offering odds on expiring while you’re getting busy?”
Frankie grinned. “It makes ’em try harder. Now-what can I do for Las Vegas ’s finest?”
“I was wondering about a props bet you took-guy named Hal Kanamu.”
Frankie’s eyes rolled up in anguish. “Ah! The Hawaiian hophead. I couldn’t believe that one, I really couldn’t. Thought it was an easy thousand bucks and I wound up paying out seven hundred and fifty grand. I’m still in pain.”
Catherine frowned. “I thought you gave him five hundred to one. Should have been an easy fifteen hundred, no?”
“Hey, you think I don’t know about due diligence? Any time someone tries to blindside me with a bet like that, I make sure it’s on the up-and-up first. Got a PI that checks things out fo r me, makes sure the guy placing the bet doesn’t have some inside information.”
“You must have been pretty sure.”
Frankie shrugged. “I’ve used this guy before; he’s really good. What he told me was the guy was a flake-a meth head who was trying to get clean, worked as a busboy. I thought hey, maybe he overheard something at his restaurant, almost didn’t take the bet. But Hardesty-that’s the PI-tells me that he looked into Kendall Marigold, and she’s about as clean as Snow White in a nunnery. She’s eighteen, she’s not dating, she’s never even set foot in Vegas. Plus, he knows someone on her security team, and his contact says her parents guard her so close she’s practically under house arrest.”
“Yeah, teenagers will always surprise you.”
Frankie shook his head in sorrow. “Putting a dent in the family car, sure. But announcing she’s having a secret affair with her yoga instructor on Oprah? I’m surprised her dad didn’t just stroke out right there in the green room.”
“So you paid out.”
“Not right away. I threw a few more grand at Hardesty, hoping he could find something, anything to link Kanamu to the yoga instructor or one of his friends. Nada. And before you ask, yes, I trust Hardesty. He’s looked into bigger payoffs than this one, and no one’s ever been able to buy him. Much as I hated to do it, I had to give Kanamu his money. If he scammed me, I couldn’t prove it.”
Frankie’s eyes were already flicking back to the monitors. Catherine moved between them and him. “Where can I find this Hardesty?”
“He’s in the book-HardLook Investigations.”
“One more thing, Frankie, and then I’ll let you get back to work. How did Kanamu justify making the bet in the first place?”
He snorted. “Said he had a dream. Kendall Marigold being thrown into a volcano, then getting spat back out because she wasn’t ‘pure.’ And that the whole thing was part of an episode of Dog the Bounty Hunter, which I guess is a show Kanamu watches a lot.”
“Watched. He’s dead.”
Frankie’s eyebrows went up. “Hey, you don’t think I had something to do with it, do you? I may hate losing, but whacking the winners is bad for business.”
She shook her head. “Relax. I checked with casino security before I came here-you were right here all night long.”
“Yeah, office hours are a pain.” He chuckled. “But hey, it’s what I do, right? Couldn’t quit if I tried…”
After she’d said good-bye and walked away, Catherine paused again at the threshold and looked back. Warrick Brown had loved to gamble, loved it a little too much. But there was one time-years ago, before it became obvious he had a problem-that she’d met Warrick for a drink at a sportsbook. He’d put so me money on a football game, and she’d watched the last quarter with him. What she’d seen then wasn’t the desperation or fervor of an addict, but the engagement of someone enjoying himself. Laughing, joking, watching every play intently while still talking to her, explaining why he thought a particular play had been chosen over another. He’d been animated, lively, just a little more pumped up than Warrick’s usual laid-back manner. She’d found it incredibly appealing, an intriguing counterpoint to a man she already considered attractive.
Even when he lost, Warrick hadn’t seemed to mind; he’d just laughed and said there was always tomorrow.
She’d thought about initiating something that night. Thought about it carefully, weighing the pros and cons, and eventually decided against it. She wasn’t willing to take the gamble.
Thinking back on it, she was pretty sure that Warrick would have.
But she’d never know. Warrick’s tomorrows had run out.
HardLook Investigations was located above a pawnshop. Despite that, it didn’t have the rundown, film noir look of a hard-boiled detective’s office-in fact, it was bright and sunny, with several ferns in the reception area, a skylight, and posters of McGruff the Crime Dog on the walls. The receptionist was a friendly, chubby black woman with tinted glasses who told Catherine to take a seat-Mr. Hardes ty was with a client but should be done shortly.
Catherine could almost have imagined she was at the dentist’s if it weren’t for the magazines in the waiting area-PI Chronicle, Detective Magazine, a newsletter from the International Bodyguard Alliance. She was halfway through an article on body armor when the door into the other office opened and a woman clutching a manila envelope in one hand and a handkerchief in the other walked out. She strode right past, her face angry and her eyes blinking back tears, and slammed the door behind her.
“You can go in now,” said the receptionist, who didn’t seem surprised at all.
The man sitting behind the desk in the next room was not what Catherine had envisioned. He was young, clean-cut, wore glasses with stylish, stainless steel frames and a short-sleeved white shirt with a blue tie. He was so nondescript her eyes practically slid off him-which, she had to admit, was probably the point.
“Hi,” she said. “Catherine Willows, CSI.” She showed him her badge, which he examined a little more thoroughly than she was used to while shaking her hand.
“Darwin Hardesty,” he said. “Have a seat. What’s this about?”
“Hal Kanamu. He just turned up dead.”
Hardesty frowned. “Overdose?”
“Surprisingl y, no.”
“Robbery?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. You investigated him, right?”
He nodded. “Yeah. You know about the bet? Well, I was sure he must have had some sort of inside information. Couldn’t prove it, though.”
“Any leads?”
“I think the closest thing to a link I dug up was a second cousin he hadn’t seen in ten years who once worked at a resort Kendall Marigold’s dentist stayed at. When she was six.”
“What’s your gut say?”
He sighed. “I don’t know. It was such an out-of-left-field, weird prediction… but not only did I not find any proof, Kanamu himself came across as on the level. A slightly off-the-wall, drug-using kind of level, but essentially honest. He really believed the information came to him in a dream-I had experts interview him. He even passed a polygraph.”
“How did Frankie Thermopolis take the news?”
Hardesty smiled with a mouth full of even white teeth. “Not too well. But he’s a professional gambler and knows there’s no such beast as the sure thing. He may not like it, but he takes the bitter with the sweet. I think he’d recouped his losses within a couple of weeks, anyway.”
Catherine nodded. “You turn up anyone else who migh t have wanted him dead?”
“Not around here, but he hadn’t been in Vegas that long.”
“How about in Hawaii?”
“Some small-time drug stuff. I guess one of his former buddies might have gotten wind of his win and shown up demanding his share, but Kanamu didn’t seem to hang with a dangerous crowd. He was even trying to clean up-before his big score.”
“Yeah, that much money could push anyone off the wagon.” Catherine got to her feet. “Thanks for your time. Think I could take a look at your files?”
“Sure. I’ll have Cindy fax them over to your office. Willows, right?”
“You got it.”
Catherine had to admit that Darwin Hardesty seemed to know his stuff; the file he sent over on his investigation into Hal Kanamu was thorough and professional. It also seemed to confirm exactly what he’d told her-if Hal Kanamu had inside information on the status of Kendall Marigold’s virginity, he hadn’t been able to uncover it. Catherine sighed, put down the file, and went in search of other information.
She found Hodges hunched over a table in his lab; he seemed to be sketching something. “Taking up cartooning, Hodges?”
Hodges looked up, startled. “What? No, I was just brainstorming a few ideas for-never mind.”
Catherine glanced at the pad Hodges was dood ling on. “Is that a microscope with legs?”
Hodges flipped the pad over. “What can I do for you, CSI Willows?”
“I was wondering if you had anything new for me on that shard of volcanic rock.”
“Ah. You mean you need information on a mineral sample?”
“Isn’t that what I just said?”
“Then I can’t help you.” Catherine had seen that smirk too many times to think he was finished. “However, if you would like my findings on a mineraloid sample, I have some news for you.”
“The rock… isn’t a rock?”
“Not exactly. It’s obsidian, a very interesting substance. As a glass, its structure isn’t crystalline. It’s highly felsic, but with too many elements to be considered a single mineral. It’s mostly silicon dioxide, though.”
“Okay, so it’s volcanic glass. Where did it come from?”
“That’s the interesting thing. I checked a geologic database and got a match. It’s not from Nevada at all-it’s from Hawaii . Not only that, but-despite the fact that the Hawaiian Islands are basically all volcanic-there’s only one site on any of them that produces obsidian: Puu Waawaa.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s the name of the place, Puu Waawaa. It’s a volcanic cone on the north side of the Hualalai volcano. Primitive tribes used it to make things like arrowheads or kn ives-obsidian holds an edge right down to the molecular level. In fact, it’s still used for surgical scalpels today.”
“So our vic probably brought it with him.”
“Or his killer did.” Hodges paused. “Catherine, I want your honest opinion-which do you think is sexier, a centrifuge or a gas chromatograph?”
“Hodges, you really need to get out of the lab more often.”