Nick turned to Denard. "When we do locate Ben, is there somewhere we can talk to him alone?"
Denard made a vague gesture. "Break room is right around the corner, when you leave my office."
Nick nodded. "I know we've been imposing, but would you mind tracking Ben down for us? Asking him to meet us there?"
She nodded curtly, professionally; Denard was clearly happier when given a task. "I'll take care of it."
"And if you run into our wandering boy, Sergeant O'Riley, would you guide him to the break room, as well?"
"No problem."
When the office manager was gone, Catherine and Nick-field kits in hand-went the opposite direction through the covey of cubicles. Shortly, he was pushing open a door holding it open for Catherine as she stepped into the break room. Which was was larger than Nick would have expected for this facility, with round, dark-wood-topped tables and conference-room-style padded chairs positioned around the twenty-by-twenty-five-foot room. Against one wall was a big-screen TV, and along another a long counter with microwave, an espresso machine, a stainless steel sink and an assortment of condiments. At the far end of the counter a full-size refrigerator and a Coke machine stood guard. A smoked-glass window ran the length of the far wall and let in just enough sun and a nice view of a back-parking-lot basketball court.
"So this is what it's like to have perks," Nick said, setting his case on one of the tables.
"No kidding," Catherine said, doing the same with her kit. "If our break room was set up like this, I'd pitch a tent and move in."
Janice Denard didn't keep them waiting long. Barely five minutes after she had left them, she entered and held the door open for the young man they'd waited for.
The individual Nick took to be Ben Jackson stood well over six feet tall, carried over two hundred seventy pounds on a wide frame, yet moved with a grace a man half his size might envy. The artist's brown crewcut above an ample forehead gave him a collegiate look; his brown eyes were bright, alert.
"Detectives Willows and Stokes," Denard said, "this is Ben Jackson…. No sign of your sergeant."
"Thanks," Nick said to Denard, not bothering to correct the "detective" designation. But to Jackson, Nick said, "I'm Stokes, she's Willows. From the crime lab."
Jackson nodded at Catherine and seemed to want to shake hands, but thought better of it.
"Thank you again, Ms. Denard," Catherine said.
Denard took the hint and backed out of the room, pulling the door closed as she went.
"Have a seat," Catherine said to Jackson in a pleasant but not particularly friendly fashion. The man headed to a table, walking with the slightest hint of a limp.
Nick and Catherine sat on either side of the young man at one of the round tables. Still pleasant, Catherine said, "You're pretty casual." She gestured around the room. "I would've taken this for a shirt-and-tie kind of place."
Jackson shook his head. "Only if a client's coming in."
"Don't have to be a detective," Nick said, affably, "to figure you played some football."
Jackson smiled a little. "Second-string guard at Iowa State." His voice soft, his words measured. "You?"
Nick gave him half a grin. "Texas A&M, fourth-string tight end."
Jackson nodded, and seemed a little more at ease. Which had been the purpose of Nick letting the guy know they were both ex-jocks; further, their glory days had been more in high school than in college. Nick's football career, he was well aware, ground to a halt because he was too short and too slow. Jackson certainly wasn't too short and Nick-reflecting on the man's limp-wondered if that's what had kept him from moving on; hell, the guy had size enough for the pros.
Catherine-obviously seeing the rapport between the two ex-jocks-caught Nick's eyes and tightened hers, in a signal for him to take the lead. He responded with a nod so tiny Jackson surely didn't notice it.
"If you'll excuse me," Catherine said, and she went to her crime scene case on a nearby table and opened the lid.
"How long have you been with Newcombe-Gold?" Nick asked, drawing Jackson's eyes away from what Catherine was up to.
"Not quite a year."
"Like it here?"
Jackson nodded. "Very cool people, and the work is challenging."
Casually, Catherine asked, "Were you here over the weekend?"
"No." Jackson sat up. "Look, is that what the investigation's about? Something that happened this weekend?"
Ignoring the question, Nick insisted, "Tell us where you were this weekend."
Jackson looked hard at Nick, and then did the same with Catherine, before answering. "What exactly am I suspected of?"
Nick glanced at Catherine, who lifted an eyebrow. Looking back at Jackson, Nick said, "We didn't say we suspected you of anything, Mr. Jackson. Maybe Ms. Denard mentioned, we talked to everyone at Newcombe-Gold, yesterday, except for the handful of you who were away for whatever reason."
"Yes. She did mention that."
Nick smiled blandly. "Good. Now. We just want to know why you didn't work this weekend…. I understand you usually come in at least part of Saturday."
His expression skeptical, Jackson said, "My wife and I flew back to Iowa-Des Moines to be exact, to visit her mother."
Catherine wheeled, arcs of hair swinging. "I thought you were in Idaho."
Jackson frowned. "Who told you that?"
"Ms. Denard."
"Oh, well. That's a common mistake. They make it around here all the time."
Catherine gave Jackson that beautiful smile of hers that she reserved for suspects who were making her suspicious. "What mistake is that, Mr. Jackson?"
"I'm from Idaho. But I went to Iowa. I met my wife at Ames-at college. Her family's from Des Moines. Idaho, Iowa, they mix it up."
"Ah," Catherine said, as if he'd just told her an enormous whopper.
Nick said, "You left when?"
Thrown a little by Catherine's attitude, Jackson said, "Friday night after work…and we just got back, late last night."
Catherine tossed the question casually over her shoulder: "Anybody in Iowa besides your in-laws see you in Iowa?"
"About half the staff of Mercy Medical Center," Jackson said, a hard edge in his soft voice. "My mother-in-law went in for a mastectomy-that's why we went back to Iowa."
"I'm sorry," Nick said, genuinely.
If Catherine felt sorry, she didn't show it; she was pulling no punches: she tossed one of the evidence bags containing the child porn pictures onto the table.
"Ever seen anything like this before?" she asked. She did not sit, hovering ominously. "In Iowa? Idaho? Vegas?"
Jackson's face drained of blood as he looked down at the photo. "Oh, my God. Take that away. Please!"
Neither Catherine nor Nick complied.
He swallowed thickly. "Is that what this is about? This isn't me. What does it have to do with the agency, anyway?"
Nick and Catherine exchanged glances.
Then Nick said, "Can we trust you to not talk about this to anybody?"
Jackson looked from one to the other. "Of course you can. This kind of thing is a crime. I know that. Jeez!"
Nick nodded, then gestured to the photo. "Several of these were found in a printer here yesterday."
"Here? Damn! What kind of perv would-"
"According to the log," Nick said, "the print order originated from your work station."
His eyes bulged. "My-"
Catherine said, "On Saturday."
Jackson pressed a hand to his forehead and rubbed it down his face as if he were trying to wipe the features off. "Oh, man…. I was in Iowa, there are fifty, a hundred people who either saw me at the hospital, or in one of the airports, or for that matter on the plane!"
Nick asked, "Anybody else ever use your work station?"
"No. Not that I know of, anyway."
"Could they use it without your knowledge?"