"No," Sara said, "actually, I was thinking that we should get the evidence they took…and go through it?"
"Once again, CSI Sidle, I'm a step ahead of you. Already got the box right here."
Shaking her head, grinning again, Sara said, "Okay, smart-ass-what have you found?"
"Hey, nothin' yet. Even miracles take time."
"But have you been through the stuff?"
"Just in a cursory way, making sure everything is there."
"Still…spot anything good?"
"Haven't studied it; just verified the catalog."
"Everything's in order?"
"Yup," Nick said. "No puzzle pieces missing…unless you find some missing ones."
"Hey, uh…is there a diary, a journal…?"
"I don't remember seeing one."
Sara made a click of frustration in one cheek. "Something missing on her desk…next to her dictionary and thesaurus? And I was hoping it might be another book-diary, maybe."
"There's an address book. Ms. Sidle, you betray your age."
"I do?"
"Diaries are so last century. If you were a high school girl, keeping a journal today, where would you keep it?"
Her eyes moved to the vacant spot where the computer had been and she nodded. "Yeah, yeah, you're right-electronically. Anything of interest in the address book?"
"Haven't looked yet. I figured we'd go through it when you got back."
"Ah. CSI Stokes, where would you be without me?" Sara clicked off before Nick could answer, and her smile faded as she went back to searching the dead girl's room.
She began with the dresser, going through the drawers and finding nothing but clothes of Kathy's: underwear, T-shirts, jeans, socks. Next, she checked under the TV; then flipped the pages of the dictionary and thesaurus. The file organizer held no clues, nor did the single drawer in the desk have any revelations to share. Nothing on or under the bed.
She thumbed through the pages of the novels on the nightstand and found nothing. The bookcase and a double-door closet were all she had left when Brass came in, an alertness in his eyes telling her something was up.
Something big.
He said, "Guess who Kathy Dean was babysitting for the night she disappeared? Dustin and Cassie Black."
Sara's head reared back. "Whoa…. The mortician you and Grissom went to see?"
"One and the same."
Her eyebrows rose and she exhaled. "Now that's interesting. So, I'd guess you kinda wanna go back and have another talk with him…?"
"Kinda."
Nodding, Sara gestured around her. "Can it wait forty-five minutes or so, till I'm done here?"
"No need. You're on your own. Grissom's on his way here now to pick me up."
"Why's that?"
"He was with me last time I talked to Black. Wants in on it. He'll ride with me, and leave the Tahoe for you."
"It's a plan." She moved to the closet.
Brass said, "I'll wait downstairs-let you know when Gil gets here."
"Sure," she said with a shrug.
The closet held nothing of interest and she finally turned her attention to the monster bookcase in the corner, five shelves high and brimming with books. The CSIs before her no doubt had gone through each volume, but she would do the same. Tedious work, and after three shelves of nothing, she was expecting to end this exercise disappointed.
Then a small slip of paper tumbled from the pages of the book she was fanning through. It wafted back and forth, feather-like, before coming to rest on the floor.
With a pair of tweezers, she picked the paper up by its edge, a folded note from what looked like a restaurant receipt pad. Resting it on the desk and using a second pair of tweezers (so as not to damage any possible fingerprints), she carefully unfolded the note.
Across the top were stamped the words Habinero's Cantina. The message-hastily scrawled in pink ink on the light green lined sheet-was both simple and cryptic: FB @ your place, 0100, A.
Sara had no idea what this meant, nor when Kathy might have received it. But the note must have been meant for Kathy, or at least held significance for her, otherwise why would she have folded it up and stuck it away? Question was: What did the note mean?
And when had Kathy received it? Could've been the day she disappeared, or (considering how long she'd worked at Habinero's) any time in the last two years.
She went to heft the book that had held the missive and checked the spine-Lady Chatterley's Lover, D. H. Lawrence.
Sara half-smirked to herself-a classic all right, but probably not on the preferred reading list of Mr. and Mrs. Dean….
She placed the book in an evidence bag, then carefully did the same with the note.
Grissom appeared in the doorway, Brass in the hall.
"Anything of note?" Grissom asked.
"A note, in fact." She held up the bagged evidence.
Grissom took the bag with the note and read it through the plastic, handed it to Brass.
The detective asked Sara, "Mean anything to you?"
Sara shook her head. "I'll run it past the parents before I leave."
Grissom glanced around the bedroom. "How close are you here?"
Sara shrugged. "Half an hour?"
"Good work," Grissom said, and he and Brass were gone.
Downstairs, twenty-five minutes later, Jason and Crystal Dean-seated in their kitchen having coffee-read the note, then gave each other a puzzled look.
"So," Sara said, "neither of you know who FB might be?"
"No," Dean said.
"Or A?"
They said, "No," at the same time.
"Are you sure? Could you think about boys she was seeing, or even was just friendly with?"
Dean gave her a cross look. "Young lady, I told you, I told all of you, a hundred times-our daughter had different priorities. She wasn't seeing anybody, wasn't dating anyone."
Sara suddenly realized it was time to take off the kid gloves and give Kathy Dean the informed investigation she deserved.
"Mr. and Mrs. Dean, your daughter was pregnant when she died."
Mrs. Dean's face was a white mask with huge eyes. Her husband's face reddened.
"That's a goddamn lie," he said. "That's impossible!"
"Impossible…" the mother moaned.
"No," Sara said, "it isn't. The coroner's report has confirmed this. Her pregnancy may well have been a factor in her murder, so it's imperative for you to try to recall any young men who may have been friendly with Kathy."
The father's mouth was a harsh straight line; his eyes quivered with dampness. "You don't have any right to call her by her first name."
"Mr. Dean. I am only-"
"Leave. Right now. Leave us alone." He was comforting his wife, an arm around her shoulder.
He still was, when Sara went out.
Brass had parked in the Desert Haven Mortuary lot, and he and Grissom were just getting out of the Taurus when a late-model Cadillac Escalade pulled past and took the lot's prime reserved space.
Dustin Black, again in a well-cut gray suit and tie, emerged from the shiny new car, not noticing (or at least not acknowledging) their presence, as he headed into Desert Haven. The detective and CSI entered the funeral home perhaps thirty seconds behind the tall, bald mortician.
Fewer people milled in the lobby of the mortuary today and Dustin Black himself, and not one of his assorted flunkies, was the greeter who held out his hand as they entered.
When the mortician recognized the representatives of the LVPD, his mouth dropped open, and that hand hung in space awkwardly until Brass shook it, smiled, and said, "We'd like a private visitation, Mr. Black…with you."