"And is that why you're not going to be involved in the investigation? Conflict of interest?"
"Until now," the sheriff said, off-script now and choosing his words carefully, "this has been a federal missing persons investigation. Now that it's a homicide, the LVMPD will take charge. I don't run homicide investigations: as you know, I oversee both the police and sheriff's departments, here. Those are my responsibilities."
"Then who will be running the investigation?"
"Two of our finest law enforcement professionals. And they are the ones to whom you should direct your future questions: Captain Jim Brass and CSI supervisor Gil Grissom. Thank you."
Watching in Grissom's office, Brass turned to the CSI, who shot him a glare and said, "You handle the media. I don't do media."
"You don't do it well," Brass admitted sourly.
Then both of them turned their eyes back on the screen, where the media throng was still shouting questions. But Mobley was in the process of disappearing back inside City Hall, leaving the reporters wondering what hit them.
But Grissom knew very well what had hit him and Brass: Mobley had just dumped this political hot potato into their collective lap. Aiming the remote at the TV and clicking off the power, he wondered if the day could get any worse.
About five minutes later, after Brass had shuffled glumly out, it did.
An oily voice said in a much too friendly manner, "Gil Grissom. Still offering twenty-four-hour service, I see-how can you stand these hours?"
Grissom swiveled in his chair toward the door, where-leaning against the frame, his blond hair slicked back straight like a snake trying to molt-resided a smiling Rick Culpepper.
Culpepper wore a well-tailored gray suit and a dark gray tie on a very light gray shirt. His arms were folded and his manner was casual in an all-too-studied manner. After all, the last time this "friendly" caller and Gil Grissom had met up, the two had been so at odds over a disputed prisoner, the FBI man had started to draw a weapon on the CSI.
The two law enforcement agents had crossed paths more than once; to Grissom, Culpepper represented the justice system at its most amoral. If Grissom could have picked one person not to see today, it well might have been Rick Culpepper.
"May I help you?" Grissom asked, in a voice usually reserved for suspected shoplifters.
The FBI agent eased into the room, helped himself to a chair, leaned back, crossed a leg, smiled with a million teeth. "Heard you found a body at Nellis this morning."
"No."
Eyebrows raised. "You didn't find a body at Nellis Air Force Base?"
"We found a body outside the Air Force base."
"Ah. Right. You're always precise. Admire that in you, buddy."
"Thank you."
"I also heard that the victim is the subject of an investigation of ours."
Grissom couldn't help himself. "That missing person that you didn't find? Yes."
Culpepper folded his arms, smiled big. Then he said, "Yeah, well, we're going to want to be kept in the loop, where your investigation's concerned."
"Are you? What is it people in hell want, again?"
"Hey, buddy, there's no need to be snotty-you don't still hold a grudge! You were working one case, I was working another-sometimes there's conflicts of interest, even between friends…if you gather my meaning."
Grissom said nothing.
"After all, we're on the same team, just different squads. All after the same thing, right? Justice."
Culpepper could crawl under Grissom's skin like few other people on this earth. But the CSI's voice remained calm. "We're after the truth about crimes, and justice can flow from that. But, Culpepper, I have no idea what you're after-except maybe a corner office with a view."
Culpepper rose, as if in slow motion, and smoothed out his suit; he glanced at the surrounding clutter. "Not everybody can have an office like this…. Just keep us apprised, buddy. Okay?"
"Sure," Grissom said, hoping it would speed the agent on his way.
"See," Culpepper said from the doorway, unable to leave without having the last word. "We are on the same team."
And by way of goodbye, he fired a finger gun at Grissom and winked.
When the agent had gone, Grissom decided that he would indeed inform Culpepper of their progress-just as soon as the killer was arrested, tried, convicted, sentenced and safely behind bars awaiting lethal injection. Even then, Grissom thought, Culpepper would still look for a way to turn the case to his advantage.
Grissom bent over some paperwork and forced himself to concentrate; he would not allow the federal agent to get to him. But his head popped up when someone knocked on the jamb. He was ready to snap at Culpepper if the FBI agent had returned, only it was Greg Sanders framed in the doorway, a small stack of printouts in hand.
The slender young DNA expert with the spiky hair and longish sideburns smiled nervously his sharp, brown eyes darting around. Greg always seemed to be one espresso over the line.
Grissom willed calm into his voice, making sure the Culpepper irritation didn't bleed in. "Yes, Greg?" He knew he intimidated Greg and the kid was nervous enough, already.
"Test results on your Air Force base vic."
Pleasantly surprised, Grissom said, "That was fast."
Sanders shrugged. "We had DNA from her hair-brush we got from the Lewis woman's apartment, back when she disappeared. Having the body made it easy-I didn't have to wait while we replicated over and over from one cell."
"I know how DNA is processed, Greg. And?"
Greg looked lost. "And what?"
As usual, Greg's attention deficit disorder seemed to have kicked in, the tech so wrapped up in what he hadn't had to do that he'd forgotten the reason for his visit…which was what he had gotten done.
Letting out a sigh Grissom asked, "And what did you find, Greg?"
"Oh!" Greg said, snapping out of it. "The DNA matched. The body in the morgue is definitely Candace Lewis."
"Thanks, Greg."
"Hey. My pleasure. Any time. No problem."
"The report, Greg."
"Sure." Greg handed him the report, twitched three or four awkward smiles, and left.
Grissom absently fingered through pages that all added up to just one thing: what had been a high-profile missing persons case had turned into an even higher-profile homicide, and the two best suspects?
The mayor of the city and the sheriff who kept the peace.
The CSI allowed himself a small, personal smile. It was a good thing he believed so firmly in following the evidence, because if he followed hunches-like his friend Brass-Gil Grissom would've had a really bad feeling about where this case was headed.
5
AFTER SOME SACK TIME AND A FEW MINDLESS HOURS OF ESPN, Nick Stokes felt like a new man. He could tell that Catherine was in a much better mood now, too-sleep and a little quality time with her daughter always seemed to work wonders.
With Grissom's permission, Nick and Catherine were starting their shift midway-three A.M.-which would allow them to work into daylight hours, and be along for interviews with witnesses and suspects. Also, it would put them only halfway through shift when Nunez and his computer cronies showed up to go to work at seven.
The two CSIs joined Nunez's compu-posse then in the large, air-conditioned, garage-like room at the rear of the complex.
The Ryder truck sat parked in the middle of the room with Nunez's team taking the computers out one at a time and placing them on banquet-style tables assembled around the truck. The scene looked vaguely like a swap meet. That vibe quickly faded, however, as the experts got to work: each hard drive was imaged twice, with one copy being put in the computer to be returned to Newcombe-Gold and the other marked for Nunez to search. Each of the originals was tagged and sent to the evidence room.