Sin City

"I don't remember you telling us you were a lesbian."

Tera Jameson backed up a step, horrified and offended. Words flew out of her: "Why the hell does that matter? What business is it of yours? What could it possibly have to do with Jenna's death?"

Catherine asked, coolly, "Ms. Jameson-were you and Jenna involved?"

"No! We were just friends."

"We've been told Jenna was bisexual."

"Who by? That cow Belinda? That's crazy! That's nonsense! Jenna was straight-you think gays don't have straight friends? Odds are one of you three is a lesbian!"

"Jenna was straight?" Conroy repeated, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, she was straight! So why should I have mentioned my sexual preference? It has nothing to do with this."

Sara asked, "So you two just lived together?"

"I told you-Jenna wasn't like that. What, you think we were a couple of teenage girls playing doctor? Get real."

"Well," Catherine said, edging past the dancer, the bagged bedspread piled under one arm, "we'll know soon enough."

"Is that my bedspread? Are you taking my bedspread?"

Catherine said nothing.

Now Tera was following them as they headed for the Tahoe. "What else of mine are you taking?"

"Some jeans," Sara said, casually, "some other stuff."

"Shit! You lousy bitches!"

Conroy swung around and faced the dancer. "Maybe we should take you in, too."

Tera's face screwed up in rage. "For what?"

Catherine knew Conroy wanted to say murder…but right now? They had no proof.

So the CSI stepped forward and said, in a friendly manner, "Ms. Jameson-you liked Jenna. She was your friend. Let us do our job. We're just trying to eliminate you as suspect…that's all."

Tera thought about that, and said, "Yeah, right," not seeming to believe Catherine, but not as worked up, either.

Then the dancer was heading quickly up the stairs, ponytail bouncing.

When Tera was out of sight, Catherine said, "Greg had better come through for us, or we might find ourselves on the crappy end of the lawsuit stick."

Conroy sighed. "Thanks for playing diplomat, Catherine-I was kind of stepping over the line, there. And with the mood Mobley's been in lately, I don't want any part of pissing off the sheriff."

"I hear that," Sara said.

But Catherine knew it was worse than just department politics. Detective Erin Conroy had taken in one bum suspect, and doing that a second time could make the case practically impossible to prosecute…if they ever got that far. Any decent defense attorney would make mincemeat of them for arresting two wrong suspects-talk about reasonable doubt-and Jenna Patrick's killer, whoever he or she might be, would walk smiling into the sunset.

"Well, if I can't come up with something solid," Conroy said to the CSIs as she helped them load up the SUV, "you ladies better find it for me, somewhere in all this evidence we've been gathering…and soon."

Then the detective went to her Taurus, and Catherine and Sara to their Tahoe, to head back. The sun was coming up, and another shift was over.

13

THE NEXT NIGHT'S SHIFT HAD BARELY BEGUN WHEN Warrick Brown stuck his head into Grissom's office, waving a file folder. "Lil Moe's real name is Kevin Sadler."

Grissom looked up from files of his own. "The pusher you busted? What was that about? Bring me up to speed."

Warrick remained in the doorway. "Sadler's a two-bit dealer, done some county time, never handled enough weight to go the distance."

"And this has to do with our case how?"

Warrick offered up a sly smile. "Sadler stamps his bags with a little red triangle."

"Like the bag of coke we found at Pierce's?"

"Exactly like."

Grissom rocked back. "So-does this mean we have a new suspect?"

Warrick leaned against the jamb. "You mean, did Owen Pierce hire this scumbag to off his wife? Or maybe did Owen and his connection have a falling out, and Lynn Pierce caught the bad end of it?"

Impatiently, Grissom said, "Yes."

"No," Warrick said. "Sadler was in lockup for three months-grass bust. Just got out."

"Just?"

"Two days after Lynn Pierce went missing."

Grissom made a disgusted face. "Didn't take him long to jump back into business. Well, at least you got him off the street…. What's next?"

"Gris, Little Moe's not a dead-end."

"There's mo'?"

Warrick actually laughed. "That wasn't bad, Gris. Anyway, just two short years ago, Sadler was a baseball player at UNLV. Guess who his physical therapist was?"

Grissom's eyes glittered. "Does he live in a castle?"

"How's this for a scenario? Kevin Sadler, aka Lil Moe, enters his new, lucrative line of chemical sales. And maybe his physical therapist is not just a member of the Hair Club for men…"

Grissom frowned thoughtfully. "He's the president?"

Warrick shrugged a shoulder. "People who come to massage therapy are hurting-and massage isn't cheap. Pierce pulls down seventy-five an hour for a session…so he's obviously attracting a clientele who could afford recreational drugs to help ease their pain."

Still frowning, Grissom-already on his feet-asked, "You run this by Brass?"

"Oh yeah-more important, he's about to run it past our friend Kevin…which is to say Moe." Warrick checked his watch. "They should be heading into the interrogation room about…now."

Through the two-way glass they could see the slender, dreadlocked Sadler, in one of the county's orange jumpsuits, sitting sullenly at the table, a bandage on his forehead. Seated beside him was Jerry Shannon, the kind of attorney who was glad for whatever scraps the Public Defender's office could toss his way. Short and malnourished-looking, the attorney looked superficially spiffy in a brown sportcoat, green tie and yellow shirt, which on closer inspection indicated his tailor shop of choice might be Goodwill.

Brass was on his feet, kind of drifting between Sadler and his attorney, whose arms were folded as he monotoned, "My client has nothing to say."

Warrick and Grissom exchanged glances: they'd encountered Shannon before; low-rent, yes, thread-bare, sure…but no fool.

Brass directed his gaze at Sadler, and with no sympathy, asked, "How's the ribs?"

"They hurt like a motherfucker!" Sadler said, and grimaced, his discomfort apparently no pose. "I'm gonna sue your damn asses, police brutality shit…."

The skinny attorney leaned toward his client and touched an orange sleeve. "You don't have to answer any of the captain's questions, Kevin-including the supposedly 'friendly' ones."

"You prefer Kevin, then?" Brass asked. "Not Moe?"

The dealer looked toward his lawyer, then back at Brass, blankly. Shannon leaned back in his chair, folded his arms again, smiled to himself.

Brass was saying, "Found a lot of grass on you last night, Kevin-not to mention the coke and the meth, and the pills. County just won't cover it. This time you're gonna get a little mo' yourself…in Carson City."

Trading glances with his attorney, Sadler tried to look defiant and unconcerned; but the fear in his eyes was evident.

"You positive you don't want to answer a few questions for us? Help us out?"

"Hell no! You-"

But Sadler's attorney had leaned forward and touched that orange sleeve again, silencing his client.

Pleasantly, Shannon inquired, "And what would be in it for my client? If he 'helped you out.'"

"That would depend on the answers he gives," Brass said.

Shannon shook his head. "You want Kevin to answer your questions, and then you'll offer us a deal? That's a little backwards, Captain Brass, isn't it?"