Career politician though he was, Sheriff Brian Mobley was also a man of his word, and the kind of man who took matters of time seriously, one of the few things Grissom liked about him. Accordingly, Mobley walked into Grissom's office exactly fifteen minutes later.
Grissom felt at home in his office, much the way an animal might in its den or nest. He was wholly unaware that to others his office seemed uncharacteristically cluttered, even chaotic, for such a serious man of science, much less an individual charged with the duties of a manager.
Gray metal shelves lined the walls to the right and left of the door, home to two-headed pigs, various arcane experiments, books and periodicals from various centuries. His desk perched in the middle of the room, arrayed (or perhaps disarrayed) with piles of paper, a phone and an art deco lamp. More shelves, cubbyholes and other equipment consumed the back wall. The front section of the large room housed a small work area with a modest quantity of lab equipment.
When Mobley entered, Grissom was seated behind his desk, while Brass stood off to one side, careful not to lean against any of the jarred samples on the shelves. Whether the detective did this out of respect for Grissom's quarters, or out of fear that something might grab him, Grissom could not venture a guess.
Mobley positioned himself in front of the desk, facing Brass. The sheriff's aide and campaign manager-Ed Anthony, a short, pudgy individual for whom the term "toady" might well have been coined-tagged along in the sheriff's wake like a remora hanging on for dear life.
"I don't like having my chain pulled, Jim," Mobley said tightly. "I have a lot on my plate right now."
Twinkies and Big Macs, most likely, Grissom thought.
At Mobley's side, Anthony said, witheringly, "The sheriff doesn't have time for any of your fun and games, Captain." The aide had a flat face except for a sharp-beaked nose, thinning dark hair and shiny blackbird eyes.
"Just what is so goddamned important?" Mobley demanded, continuing to ignore his host behind the desk.
Without a word, Brass took a photo from his inside sportscoat pocket and handed it to Mobley, as if serving a summons.
The sheriff studied the picture-a Polaroid Sara had shot of their Cleopatra, on the morgue tray-while Anthony peeked around his boss's shoulder for a glimpse.
But neither seemed to recognize the woman whose face had graced the front page of both the Sun and the Review-Journal for the better part of the last twenty days. Of course, Grissom thought, she didn't look exactly like this, when she was alive, and applying her own makeup….
Brass waited for several long moments and, finally, when Mobley looked up in wordless confusion, Brass said, "Straight from the morgue, Sheriff…. Candace Lewis."
"Oh my God," Mobley said hollowly, glancing back at the face.
Anthony seemed hypnotized by the picture; his eyes were huge. "Hell…."
Nodding, Brass said, "That pretty much sums it up."
The aide took a sudden step forward. "And what's the meaning of summoning the sheriff to CSI about this?" Anthony demanded.
Brass answered, but directed it to Mobley: "To give you a heads up, Sheriff, and a head start. I thought this better dealt with on our turf." To both of them, Brass said, "The press will have this before the end of business, today…much sooner, probably…and you're going to have to respond in some way."
Mobley nodded. "Thanks, Jim," he said softly, sincerely. "We'll start working on a statement right away."
"Brian," Brass said, his voice remarkably gentle considering all the contention that had existed between these two, "you do know that you'll have to recuse yourself from the case. You might want to do that right now, at the outset."
Anthony took a step forward and stopped when he realized he had nowhere else to go, an angry terrier on a short leash. "Why the hell should he recuse himself? It's a major case, under his aegis!"
Moments before, the campaign manager had wanted to know why they were bothering the sheriff with this triviality.
"Why?" Brass snapped. "Jesus, man, what the hell kind of advisor are you? Why would you even need to ask that question? He's running against Harrison for mayor!"
"We haven't announced as yet," Anthony said, defensive.
Brass shot the little man a look that should have shut him up.
Instead, puffing up, the aide said, "That's exactly why he should stay on the case, and spearhead the investigation! The sheriff can demonstrate that he's the one man in Las Vegas who can keep the city safe."
To his credit, Mobley was having none of it; he was, in fact, shaking his head and patting the air, trying to slow down his overly aggressive aide.
"Why, you can't buy this kind of publicity!" Anthony crowed.
Speaking for the first time since Mobley entered, Grissom said, "And you wouldn't want to."
All eyes turned toward the criminalist, as he rose and stepped from around the desk; he edged past the mayor and stood at Brass's side.
"With all due respect, Mr. Anthony," Grissom said, "your advice to your candidate couldn't be more inappropriate."
The political hack seemed to notice for the first time Grissom's presence in his own office. "I…know…you," he rumbled. "You've caused us trouble before!"
Grissom's smile was tiny, if large with condescension. "There are two reasons why your plan won't work."
"Which are?"
"Number one: your client, the sheriff." Grissom nodded toward Mobley, who also seemed only to have recently noticed the CSI's presence. "He has something to gain by this woman's death-the embarrassment and perhaps downfall of his opponent in the mayoral race-so there's no way he can work the case."
Anthony said, "I said we haven't announced yet, and anyway, we can find a work-around…."
Grissom's eyes met Mobley's; Mobley's met Grissom's.
"Be quiet, Ed," the sheriff said, resigned, clearly accepting what Grissom had already said and probably knowing what was coming next.
"And two," the CSI supervisor said, "because the sheriff has something to gain, that also makes him a suspect."
Anthony started to puff up again, but Mobley held up a hand, like a traffic cop. "The man's right, Ed."
"A suspect!" the aide snorted. Then he blustered: "The sheriff can't be a suspect…. You can't be a suspect, Sheriff…."
Mobley faced his campaign manager. "Ed, here are your options: either shut the hell up, or go wait in the car."
Stunned, Anthony took a step backward.
The sheriff's attention turned completely to Grissom. "Gil, you and Jim will have complete autonomy in this investigation. Every asset of the LVMPD is at your disposal." He turned to Brass. "I can put that in writing, if you consider it advisable."
A syllable that might have been "no" escaped from Anthony.
Brass said, "Since that's not our standard procedure, I don't believe it's necessary. But if you anticipate elements within the department who might want to work against you…well, then maybe you should repeat what you just said to us, in your public statement."
Eyes narrowed, Mobley nodded. "I like that."
Bored with politics, Grissom said, "We need to talk DNA."
"You've got DNA already?" Mobley asked, surprised.
"Not yet." Grissom held out a swab. "But wouldn't you like to be eliminated as a suspect as soon as possible?"
Mobley opened his mouth, perhaps to comply, but Grissom seized the moment and took the swab.
The CSI bestowed the sheriff a small smile. "Thank you, Brian."
Anthony, apparently not able to contain himself further, stepped forward. "This really is disgraceful, Dr. Grissom. Your behavior-"