"That might be Lipton," Sara said, leaning in, eyes narrowed. "Then again, with this picture, it might be Siegfried or Roy."
"Or their damn tiger." Catherine sighed, shook her head. "We've got to get a better look. Where's Warrick, anyway?"
Audio-visual analysis was Warrick Brown's forensic specialty.
Sara shrugged. "Off with Grissom and Nick. They're neck-deep in the Pierce woman's murder."
Catherine looked sharply at Sara. "That torso's been identified positively?"
"Close enough for Grissom to call it science and not a hunch. And I think our likelihood of borrowing Warrick for this, in the foreseeable future, is-"
"Hey! You remember that one guy?"
Sara's eyebrows went up. "I'm good, but I need a little more than that to go on."
Then Catherine traded the remote for her cell phone and punched in Grissom's number.
"Grissom," the supervisor's voice said, above the muted rumbling of motor engine and traffic sounds that told her he was on the road; he was, in fact, on his way with Brass to Owen Pierce's residence.
"Gil, I've got a problem."
"Jenna Patrick?"
"Yeah," Catherine said. "The videotapes are so grainy, not even Lipton's mother could ID our suspect. I'm assuming you can't spare Warrick-"
"Normally when you assume you make an ass of u and me. This is one of the rare other occasions."
Catherine rolled her eyes at Sara; a simple "That's right" would have been sufficient. Into the phone, she asked, "Gil, who was that guy?"
Again Sara raised her eyebrows. Grissom, however, had no problem deciphering who Catherine meant, answering without hesitation: "Daniel Helpingstine."
"Helpingstine," Catherine echoed, nodding. "That's right, that's right."
"Anything else?"
"Can I borrow Warrick?"
"No."
"Then I have to spend a little money."
"That's what we have-a little money. But do it."
At that, they both clicked off, no good-byes necessary. She rose and moved behind her desk. Sitting down, she quickly found the leather business-card folder in a drawer and riffled the plastic pages.
"Helpingstine?" Sara asked, still perplexed; she hated not knowing what was up.
"Yes." Catherine was flipping pages. "I guess you must've been out in the field, when he stopped by-manufacturer's rep from LA, who was here, oh…maybe six months ago…. Here you are!…He was pushing this new video enhancement device called Tektive-not computer software, a standalone unit."
"What's it do?"
Catherine started punching buttons on the cell phone again. "Just about everything short of showing the killer on the Zapruder film, if Helpingstine's to be believed. He might be able to out-do even Warrick, where this security tape's concerned."
On the other end of the line, the phone rang once, twice, three times, then a recorded message in Helpingstine's reedy tenor came on, identifying the West Coast office of Tektive Interactive.
Catherine waited for the tone, and said, "I don't know if you'll remember me, Mr. Helpingstine, this is Catherine Willows, Las Vegas Criminalistics. If you could call me, ASAP, at-"
She heard the phone pick up, and the same reedy tenor, in person, said, "Ms. Willows! Of course I remember you, pleasure to hear from you."
"Well, you're really burning the midnight oils, Mr. Helpingstine."
"My office is in my home, Ms. Willows, and I just happened to hear your message coming in-you're nightshift, if I recall."
This guy was good. But she could practically hear him salivate at the prospect of a sale.
"That's right," Catherine said, "nightshift. Never dreamed I'd get a hold of you tonight-"
"It's been what, Ms. Willows-six months? How may I help you? Are those budget concerns behind you, I hope?"
Maybe she could pull this off without spending even "a little money." "Mr. Helpingstine, are you still willing to give us an on-the-job demonstration of the Tektive?"
He was breathing hard, now. "Happy to! As I told you when we met, as good as our prepared demonstration is, it's far better for us to help you with something, and, uh…" She could hear pages turning quickly. "…how is Thursday?"
"I know it's terribly short notice, but…could you possibly fly in here tomorrow?"
Silence indicated he was considering that. "This isn't just…any demo, is it?"
"No," Catherine confessed. "It's a murder."
"Let me check on flights and I'll get back to you."
"You have my number?"
"Oh yes. In my little book."
She could almost hear his smile.
Catherine hung up, and with a wry smirk said to Sara, "He thinks he's got my number."
"That's only fair, isn't it?" Sara batted her eyes. "I mean, you've got his."
They returned to the tapes and the popcorn, and less than a half hour later the desk phone rang.
She answered, and Helpingstine asked, "Can you have someone pick me up at McCarran?"
Catherine smiled; now this was service. "Tell me what gate and what time, Mr. Helpingstine. Someone will be there, possibly my associate Sara Sidle or myself."
She could hear his pen scribbling Sara's name, then he gave the information, finishing with, "And would you please call me Dan?"
"Happy to, Dan. And it's Catherine. See you soon."
Catherine hung up and Sara asked, "How soon?"
"Six-thirty."
"Tomorrow evening?"
Catherine grinned. "No-this morning."
Sara grinned, too. "He have a thing for you, or what?"
"I think he has a thing for money-this little item sells in mid five figures." She sighed. "That means we can stop looking at these grainy videotapes until he gets here and concentrate on other things."
"For instance?"
"We could grab some food, if you like."
Sara half-smirked, lifted a shoulder. "Actually, I'm kinda stuffed."
"Demon popcorn. There's always searching Lipton's house."
Sara's eyes brightened. "About time!"
Reaching for her desk phone, Catherine said, "I'll call Conroy."
An hour later they met Detective Erin Conroy-crisply professional in a gray pants suit-in the driveway of Ray Lipton's house on Tinsley Court, not far off Hills Center Drive. A baby-blue split level built in the 'eighties, the house perched on a sloping lawn, looking well-taken care of in a neighborhood of other well-maintained homes, always a quiet area, particularly so at this hour of the night. The driveway ran alongside the house, a two-car garage around back.
The detective stood next to her Taurus, warrant in her hand, at her side, almost casually. "I've got it-let's go in."
"How are we getting inside?" Sara asked.
"Look what our buddy Ray gave me…" Conroy flashed a key. "The warrant's just to dot the i's. Lipton's still cooperative-insists he's innocent."
Innocent men always do,Catherine thought; but then so do most guilty ones….
The three of them pulled on latex gloves, then the detective unlocked the door and they stepped inside.
"You want upstairs or downstairs?" Catherine asked her coworker.
"Cool stuff's always in the basement," Sara said, with a smile of gleeful anticipation. "I'll take that."
"Let's clear it first," Conroy said.
So the three of them walked through the basement, then Conroy and Catherine went up.
Stairs from the entry way opened onto the living room. Catherine noted the good-quality brown-and-tan carpet, and heavy brown brocade drapes hanging from ornamental rods, shut tight, the sunlight managing only a hairline or two of surreptitious entry. With everything shrouded in darkness like this, the house gave the impression it'd been closed up much longer than twenty-four hours. Only yesterday's Las Vegas Sun, on the coffee table and open to the cross-word puzzle, indicated ongoing life. Beyond the coffee table, the cream-color plaster wall was occupied by an oversized brown couch accented by a couple of tan throw pillows; a starving-artist's-sale desert landscape hung straight above the couch. However neat the living room might be, one aspect seemed to indicate a male presence: the room had been turned into a formidable home entertainment center.