"I think I've seen enough for now," Ray said. Archie stopped the video. "Send the rest to my computer, and I'll look at it when I can. I have to make a phone call." He started out the door but stopped and swung around. "And thanks, Archie. That's good stuff."
Ray called Nick as he headed for his "office," a cramped space in the morgue that Doc Robbins had made generously available to him. It was small, but it suited him, and it was better than hauling all his gear around all day long.
"Stokes," Nick answered.
"How's it going out there. Nick?"
"Could be better. It's a bloodbath here. Ray. A bunch of people were shot, and I'm afraid that more might be on the way."
"Oh, no. Any fatalities?" Ray asked.
"Yes, some. Not everybody. That guy Meoqui Torres you mentioned is among the wounded. Shooting was a drive-by at his place."
"I'm sorry to hear that. Speaking of Torres, I just watched a clip from his new movie. It's pretty incendiary."
"That's kind of his reputation."
"If you can, check into a man named Herbert Acosta. He's Grey Rock, and I think he lives on the reservation. He made an implicit threat against Robert Domingo, on tape."
"Herbert Acosta, huh? I'll let Brass know. I'm working the shooting scene while he and our tribal police escort are running around."
"He got the easy part, huh? Okay, I'll finish up what I'm doing here, and then I'll head out your way to see if I can help. Watch your back. Nick."
"Always, Ray," Nick said. "Thanks."
Nick called Brass and told him what Ray had said about Herbert Acosta. He heard Brass relay the information to Aguirre, heard Aguirre chuckle without humor.
"Acosta?" the tribal cop said. "Tell him he's too late."
"What do you mean?"
"You see that older guy at Meoqui's? Skinny guy, gray hair?"
"The dead one."
"Yeah, the dead one. That was Herbert Acosta."
"You catch that, Nick?" Brass asked into the phone.
"Yeah, I got it. Paramedics just rolled up. I'll try to process Acosta before he's taken away, see if I can connect him to Domingo's house."
"You do that," Brass said. "I'll talk to you later."
16
"I'm certain, Detective Willows -"
"I'm not a detective, Doctor Boullet. I'm a criminalist. You can call me Supervisor Willows, or you can call me Catherine."
"Very well, Supervisor Willows," the doctor amended. Somewhat pointedly, Catherine thought. Hutch Boullet had a pinched face, with a pursed mouth, small eyes, and a high forehead. He looked as if he spent more time playing tennis than examining patients, but the dramatic view of the city's skyline from the window of his spacious office suggested that he had a profitable practice. Of course, with the Cameron family as patients, he might not need any others. "At any rate, you're a law-enforcement officer, so I'm sure you understand that I cannot release any information about my patients without their express consent. You're familiar with doctor-patient confidentiality, of course."
"I am, Doctor," Catherine assured him. She had come there on a hunch, and he had not been happy to carve out some time from his day to see her. She could have called first, but for all she knew, that might have sent him scurrying to the nearest tennis court. At least this way, she had caught him in the office. "And I wouldn't ask if it wasn't vitally important.''
"I don't care if the fate of the free world depends on it. I can't do it."
"Here's the thing," she said. She had to get through to this guy somehow, but so far, he had proven difficult to crack. "My DNA tech has made a positive match between some hairs and fluids found in Daria Cameron's condo and some other hairs and pieces of fingernail found inside a tent at a homeless encampment."
Boullet looked uncomfortable about the direction of the conversation. He was sitting behind his expensive wooden desk, his lips pursed, his gaze locked on the desktop as if afraid to look away. There was more color in his cheeks than there had been a moment ago. "That seems most unlikely. Are you sure there isn't some mistake at your lab? I understand there have been some issues of contamination -"
"Not in a very long while, Doctor. I can assure you, our lab is very clean. And while some forensic science is considered to be questionable, DNA isn't. It's as definitive as fingerprints."
"Very well," the doctor said. "Go on."
"The hairs and fingernails that were found are very brittle, and there are whitish striations in the nails. You'd know better than I what that means. The point is, Daria is missing. And we know from the household staff that she's not well. But if she's critically ill in some way, then that changes the whole dynamic. It increases the urgency of finding her, wouldn't you say?"
"Certainly, people are looking for her anyway," the doctor said. "I'm not sure what -"
"Of course they are," Catherine interrupted. "But there's looking and there's looking. She's young, she's not currently employed, there haven't been any signs of abduction or foul play. And she's well off, and this is Las Vegas. For all we know, she's missing because she took a penthouse suite at the Romanov, or she went to Europe for the month. But if she's in need of constant medical attention or if being away from treatment might result in her death, then it's a different story. Not only does it give us new places to search – hospitals, pharmacies, doctor's offices, and the like – but it changes the importance of finding her quickly. That information might free up more resources for the search."
"I see." The doctor sat there, steepling his fingers. Catherine let the silence build. Keeping the pressure on him. If he truly had his patient's best interests at heart, he would have to make the right decision. "All right. I don't like to do this, because it's a violation of the first rule of patients' rights. And I'll trust you to keep this information as closely held as possible – it would be very bad if it became public. But if it's a matter of her life and death, I suppose I really have no choice."
Jackpot, Catherine thought. Not wanting to spook him into changing his mind, she didn't allow her triumph to show on her face. "That's right."
"Daria is quite seriously ill. I'm afraid I still haven't been able to diagnose her condition adequately; it has only presented itself recently. She has what appears to be congestion in her heart and a bit of an orange-brown discoloration of her skin, which is getting progressively more pronounced. For her heart, I've prescribed digitalis and aspirin for the time being, and I intended to schedule her for a battery of diagnostic tests, but there were… obstacles, and then she stopped returning our calls. On one of my visits to the estate, I checked with her mother, who told me she had gone missing."
"Can you tell me what those obstacles were?"
"Scheduling conflicts, I was led to believe.'
"You don't sound convinced."
"Let's just say that if it were me, I would put the rest of my life on hold until I found out. But there seem to be other factors at work here, other people making decisions for her. Beyond that, I'd rather not go into detail."