"Nicky, you're such a wimp," Catherine said good-naturedly.
"When you say 'wimp,' " Nick said innocently, "are you trying to make me feel old?"
The exchanged small smiles and got to work. The shelves looked to be mahogany, as well-five high, spread to different heights, the top two housing books with titles including Error-Free Writing and Strunk and White's Elements of Style, plus a dictionary, thesaurus, desk atlas and numerous art books, some of which were oversize and even massive. She pulled one down and absently thumbed through the pages. One picture-a nude-caught her eye. At first she thought it might be evidence, then she realized it was an image that could be found in her own home: one of the Helga pictures, by artist Andrew Wyeth.
After returning the book to its place, Catherine went through the rest of the volumes methodically; she moved down to the third shelf and sorted through seven three-ring binders, filled with drawings and other artwork from different ad campaigns, a number of which she recognized. The man had talent. As she prepared to go through the magazines in three piles on each of two bottom shelves, she sensed something, turned and saw Randle glowering out in the corridor.
Nick called, "Any luck, Cath?"
She looked Nick's way and saw him bent over the center drawer of Randle's desk. "Nothing so far. You?"
He shook his head. "Nada."
Glancing back at Randle, Catherine said, "Keep at it-I got a feeling he's watching us just to see what we'll find."
"That's natural, Cath."
"Maybe."
Her eyes were still on Randle as a tall, silver-haired gent strode into view and shook hands with the ad man, placing a hand of concern on his client's shoulder-this was his attorney, no doubt. Concentrating on the job before her, Catherine returned to the shelves.
She was riffling through the second pile on the fourth shelf when she froze….
In the midst of all the copies of Advertising Age, Mediaweek and Brandweek, the CSI caught a glimpse of gray crammed between two pages of a copy of an Adweek.
"Nick."
"What?"
"Get the camera-take a picture of this."
In a few seconds he was next to her, the thirty-five millimeter poised. "Whatcha got?"
She allowed the magazine to fall open and-tucked there, between a full-page picture of a woman holding a beer bottle and a story of the ad company that created the campaign-was a cobalt-gray zip disk with no label. As Catherine held her position, Nick took several shots of the disk and magazine.
Then Randle was standing beside them, his eyes wild.
"That's not mine!" His voice was as loud as it was angry, as angry as it was defensive. "I don't know what it is, or how it got there!"
His attorney came quickly up behind him. An impeccable, distinguished man in his early sixties, the attorney said, "Gary, be quiet. Not another word."
Randle turned to the lawyer, immediately ignoring his advice. "Jonathan, I don't know how that got there-I've never seen it before."
Austin-his eyes a washed-out blue though bright with intelligence, his handsome features marked by a narrow nose and thin lips-gritted his teeth, his words cold and measured. "In other words, that disk may be nothing at all."
Not quite getting what his lawyer was reaching for, Randle said, "I suppose, but-"
Cutting him off with both words and a chopping gesture, Austin said, "If it's nothing, we don't want to get all worked up about it-do we, Gary?"
Finally getting it, Randle clammed and allowed Austin to usher him back out into the hallway, where a whispered conference consisted mostly of the attorney talking. As they'd gone out, O'Riley had come in.
The detective said, "But is that something?"
"Our boy sure behaved like it is," Catherine said. "But until we get it to Tomas in the lab, we won't know…that is, if Tomas can work us into the sheriff's busy schedule."
O'Riley made a face. "Guy gives me a pain," he said, meaning Mobley.
Catherine and Nick searched for another twenty minutes, thoroughly going over every square inch of the office, even bringing in step ladders and looking above ceiling tiles; but, beyond the mysterious zip disk, they found nothing special.
"We done?" Nick asked.
Catherine took one last look, then said, "Yeah-let's head for la Casa Randle."
"You're spending way too much time with Tomas…."
In the corridor, they informed Austin and Randle of their intention, loaded up their gear and a small caravan took off for Crown Vista Drive: CSI Tahoe in front, then Randle and Austin in the lawyer's Jaguar, finally O'Riley's Taurus. Nick caught the Beltway and followed it around to Flamingo, taking that to Fort Apache Drive. From there the twisty streets of the Lakes development swooped around, until the Tahoe drew up in front of 9407 Crown Vista Drive.
Nick parked, Austin's Jag pulling up into the driveway of a three-car garage, itself bigger than the average house in Vegas. O'Riley parked on the street directly behind the Jag in the driveway: if Austin wanted to leave before the LVMPD was finished, he'd be backing over his client's lawn to do so.
The two-story house was impressive in size but otherwise typical of the desert town-cream stucco with a red tile roof-and not what Catherine expected, simply because it was so typical, particularly of the Lakes area. Someone artistic, like Randle, might well live in a residence with a little more flair or style.
The front yard, richly green and well manicured, did have the touch of a Chinese elm, a small mulch-filled circle of stones surrounding it. Two pillars held up a second floor that stood out over the entrance and left the front door and the two skinny windows on its either side in perpetual shade. An afterthought of a sunroom seemed to lean against the side of the house, just to the right of the entrance.
O'Riley followed the lawyer and his client to the door, while Catherine and Nick were getting their equipment out of the back of the Tahoe. By the time the CSIs caught up, they found Austin, O'Riley and Randle off to one side of the large stoop, the ad man pulling nervously on a cigarette.
O'Riley gestured in a presentational manner. "Unlocked, and all yours."
Catherine asked, "You're not coming in, Sarge?"
"Think I'll keep the counselor and his client company."
Austin said, "I've advised Mr. Randle to stay out of your way. If you need to know where something is, need any help with anything…just let us know."
"Thank you, Catherine said, tugging on her latex gloves. Nick already had his on. The white steel door opened onto an entryway that bled at right into a suitably airy sunroom with lots of rattan furnishing; at left, stairs hugged the wall on their way to the second floor. Just past the sunroom a door was open onto a half-bath, opposite which was a door that Nick discovered led to the vast garage.
Much of the downstairs was essentially behind the garage. Catherine entered a galley-style kitchen with a breakfast bar on the far side opening into a great room with an overstuffed sofa, two overstuffed chairs, a thirty-six-inch TV and a set of black shelves that held a monster stereo system. Large windows on the back wall showed the blue water of a swimming pool outside.
"Pays to advertise," Nick said.
"No," Catherine said. "People pay to advertise."
A hallway led to a large bedroom that-judging from the male feel of the room and a work area in the far right corner, with drawing board-had to be Randle's.
"Upstairs or down?" Catherine asked.
Shrugging, Nick said, "Up."
Catherine started by examining the bedroom work area. A large if prefab-looking desk accommodated a desktop computer, printer, scanner and zip drive. The latter zip was of particular interest-Randle could have downloaded the kid-porn images at home and conveniently taken them to work on that disk they'd found in his office.