Catherine said, "So you're as surprised as Mr. Denard to find these photos in Mr. Gold's printer?"
"Absolutely…. How could that have happened?"
"That's what we have to find out," Nick said.
"But your company will be inconvenienced," Catherine said. "You can speak to your lawyers if you like, of course, but we'll have a warrant shortly and-"
He held up a hand in a "stop" motion. "Anything we can do to help, we'll do."
"I'm relieved to hear you say that, Mr. Newcombe, because we're going to have to confiscate every computer in this facility."
Newcombe's shock seemed to congeal on his face, then something new appeared in his eyes: alarm. "What?"
O'Riley's face was as expressionless as a block of granite. "Ms. Willows is correct. We're going to take along everything these criminalists consider to be evidence, so we can trace the source of the pornography."
"That's what I was trying to tell you, Mr. Newcombe," Janice said, appearing at the executive's side, looking up at him pitifully. "They're planning to shut us down."
The adman stood a little straighter. "Oh, they are, are they? Well, maybe I will call my attorneys, at that."
"You said you'd do anything to help," Catherine reminded him.
"Not shut down the source of income for thirty people," he said, eyes intense. "Not if I have anything to say about it."
Actually, Catherine thought, twenty-nine, but she said, "Sir," with a smile that at least pretended to be friendly, "that's just it: you don't. Have anything to say about it, I mean."
A uniformed officer walked in with a folded sheaf of papers and handed them to O'Riley.
"Thanks," the detective said, as the uniform turned and left the room. O'Riley gave the warrant a cursory read, then handed the papers to Newcombe.
The adman was on his cell phone before he was done with the first page.
"Is that your lawyer?" Catherine asked, helpfully.
"You can rest assured it is."
"That would be the attorney who handles all your business affairs?"
"Yes, and why is that of any concern to you?"
"It isn't-but it might be to you. This is a criminal matter and your attorney probably hasn't studied in that area since law school."
O'Riley got into it, saying to the exec: "But, hey-yammer at the guy all you want, if it'll make you feel better…and for, what? Five hundred bucks an hour?…He'll get back to you and consult with a real criminal attorney and then finally they'll tell you what I'm about to tell you…for free."
Newcombe looked pissed, but he said into the phone, "Just a moment, Wayne," then said to O'Riley, "And what legal advice can you share with me?"
O'Riley shrugged. "That you can't do shit."
The adman growled into the phone, "Wayne, I'll call you back from my office," and started to leave.
Catherine called out: "There's another thing your attorney can tell you, Mr. Newcombe!"
The executive halted in the doorway, looked over his shoulder at her, glaring.
"It's that if you do try to fight this," she said, "it could cause you far more harm than being shut down for a day or two."
Newcombe's eyes tightened, but there was no hostility in his tone as he said: "What kind of trouble?"
Catherine approached him, her manner calm, professional. "Let's explore the path that doesn't come with trouble. Let's say you don't stand in our way, we take your equipment, and find the kiddie porn source. Then, when the case makes the news-and trust me, it will make the news-we praise you and your agency in all the media for helping us ferret out this dangerous individual."
Newcombe cocked his head, skeptically.
"Or," Nick said, an edge in his voice, "not."
The executive came back into the room, put himself at the center of Catherine, O'Riley and Nick. "How long do you think we'll be shut down?"
Catherine said, "A few days, if we're lucky. You might want to call your insurance company-you may be able to file a lost time claim."
Newcombe nodded. "Our coverage may include something for this, at that. What else can we do to help you?"
O'Riley pulled out a pad. "Tell us about this trade show your partner's attending."
"The aaay miss buddy show?"
O'Riley squinted; it wasn't the most intelligent expression Catherine had ever seen on a face. "Pardon?" O'Riley asked.
The exec spelled it out: "The AAAA-MIS-BUDDY show."
The detective looked at the CSIs, his eyebrows raised in confusion; the spelling bee hadn't helped any of them, both Catherine and Nick shaking their heads.
Newcombe turned on a smile normally reserved for clients-its wattage lower than your average Strip marquee, but just barely.
"Sorry," he said, "too much time with ad people. The American Association of Advertising Agencies, AAAA, has a Member Information Services section, the MIS, and they are using the trade show in LA to introduce their Business Demographics and Data for You or BUDDY system."
O'Riley tried to write all that down, but it was clear he was struggling. So Nick asked, "And that's where Mr. Gold is now?"
"Yeah, since Friday."
Turning to Janice, Nick asked "You said he flew out, Ms. Denard-what airline?"
"Airline?" she asked, confused for a moment, then she said, "Oh, I'm sorry-Mr. Gold didn't use any airline: he flew himself."
Catherine nodded toward the silver airplane on the desk. "So he's a pilot?"
"Yes," Newcombe said. "As am I. The company owns the plane, but we both use it. At our own discretion."
Tomas Nunez strolled in.
The computer geek looked more like a refugee from a Southwestern biker gang than the best computer analyst in the state. Tall and rangy, his long, black hair slicked straight back, Nunez had a leathery brown, pockmarked face, a stringy black mustache, and deep-set eyes as brown as they were cold. He wore a black leather vest, black jeans and a black promo T-shirt for an album by Los Fabulosos Cadillacs.
Newcombe and Janice Denard eyed him like they thought he'd blown in to rob the place.
Nunez smiled, displaying even, white teeth, startlingly so against his dark complexion. "Hola, Catherine-Nick, you rang? Lucky for all of us I was close by-over at Mandalay Bay, catching breakfast."
Catherine brought him up to speed, including showing him the pornographic printouts. He betrayed no emotion, which Catherine envied.
"You want all the computers processed?" he asked.
"Yes, Tomas-every last one."
He clapped once. "All right. Gonna need a trout with a Polaroid-maybe two."
Catherine nodded. Newcombe and Janice looked at each other as if Nunez's English was outer-space lingo. Catherine did not bother to explain that a "trout" was one of those uniformed officers who stood around at crime scenes, gawking more than helping, generally with their mouths hanging open-like a trout. One would be pressed into duty, taking photos of all the computers and where they sat, the wiring hooked to each one, and-if Nunez demanded it-pictures of devices they were hooked to, as well.
Before any of the computers could be processed, that photographic record had to be made.
"We're going to need more hands," Nick sighed, "and a Ryder truck."
O'Riley held up a hand for silence-he was already making the call.
Nunez approached Newcombe; the adman backed up half a step.
"Might as well start with yours," Nunez said.
Newcombe bristled and his hand tightened around the strap of his laptop bag. "Now, I'm sorry, but there I'm just going to have to draw the line. This is my personal computer from home!"
"Warrant specifies every computer on the premises," Nunez said. "That's a computer, these are the premises."
Newcombe tried to stare down the computer expert, and-though the tactic may have worked for Newcombe in the business world-with the likes of Nunez, the cause was a lost one. The geek just stared back deadpan, hand held out, until Newcombe finally laid the bag in it.