Nick settled in next to Sara.
"Find anything?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Couple needles in the haystack. We'll see." Looking down at the body, Nick saw that their victim not only had been disrobed, but her face had been scrubbed clean. She was even prettier than he had originally thought. "How about you, Sara?"
"I'll want to go over her clothes more thoroughly, later," Sara said.
Nick looked at Robbins. "And you, Doc? She tell you anything interesting yet?"
Robbins glanced up at Nick, then turned his attention back to the woman on the table. "Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the back of the head. Small caliber, probably a twenty-two. But you knew that.
"Here's what you didn't know," Robbins continued. "The fact is that the young woman is…was…pregnant."
Nick's eyes widened. He bit the word off: "Really?"
The ME nodded. "About nine weeks."
"So what we may have here," Nick said, thinking out loud, "is a father who didn't want to be a father…."
"What we may have here," Sara added, "is an abortion."
* * *
Located on Valle Verde Drive in Henderson, Desert Haven Mortuary was about as far from Desert Palm Memorial Cemetery as you could get and still be within the city limits. Caught in the noon rush hour, Grissom and Brass had taken the better part of an hour making the trek across town. When they arrived, the parking lot was practically full and Brass had to pull the Taurus over to the far side of the building.
Through shimmering heat they walked around to the front. Done in tasteful brick with white painted trim and pillars, the mortuary was but a single story, though an endless, rambling affair. No matter how far Grissom felt like he had walked, the front door always seemed to still be in the distance; he knew that inside were at least six, and maybe more, visitation rooms, as well as a cluster of offices, the workroom where the bodies were prepared, and the crematorium.
As with so many businesses, the trend in mortuaries had become the big ones eating up the little ones; many mortuaries had started out as "Mom and Pop" shops, passed down from generation to generation, but the advent of chains was ending that, as corporations bought out family businesses. Dustin Black's Desert Haven Mortuary was an exception to that rule.
Still family-owned, Desert Haven was simply too big and flourishing for the corporations to buy out. The Black family had been in the business since the late thirties, when Daniel Black (Dustin's grandfather) had purchased a very early embalming machine. Even though at the time Vegas was little more than a wide spot in the road, Daniel had set up shop as a mortician and the family's course and fortune were set from then on.
Now the biggest mortuary between California and Arizona, Desert Haven was a pillar of the community and the mortuary of choice for those who could afford it. Anyone who was anyone wouldn't be caught dead anywhere but here.
The packed parking lot told Grissom that even though it was barely noon, visitations were going strong. Elegant double doors with etched glass provided entry into a large foyer area where the CSI supervisor and the detective were met by a quiet young gray-suited greeter with a loud tie, a handsome kid in his very early twenties.
Grissom was a little surprised to be met by such a young representative-often, funeral homes used older people with a comforting manner. This boy seemed anxious.
"Which family, please?" the greeter asked.
"The Black family," Brass said.
"I…don't understand…."
Brass showed his badge, discreetly. "We need to talk to Mr. Black."
"We're really very busy." This request seemed to have thrown the greeter. "I'm not sure…"
Brass smiled-it was a particularly awful smile. "You're not very high on the food chain around here, are you, son?"
"Uh…"
"Why don't you fetch your boss and let him make this decision?"
Dark eyes beneath heavy brows tightened in thought; then the boy nodded and gestured. "Would you mind waiting over there?"
"Not at all."
They stood off to one side as the boy disappeared down a hall and an older man, with hair as gray as his suit, met incoming guests, and led them to the correct viewing room.
Three greeters moved in and out of the action like a well-oiled machine. People came and went, and always the three men-all of a certain age and bearing-were friendly, courteous, and helpful. One approached Brass and Grissom to make sure they'd been helped; they said they had.
Grissom was impressed-he'd seen casinos with less traffic. He knew the studies showed four million visitors a year, five thousand new residents a month…but how many deaths per month? How many funerals? How many cremations? Of course, Grissom knew better than most the certainty of death. The Black business was thriving, a dying business only in the literal sense, never in the financial.
Soon the young greeter delivered a tall man in his forties with an oval, pleasant face and a monk-like bald pate.
Probably at least six-five, almost heavyset, the man-distinguished in a well-cut gray suit with a blue-and-white-striped tie-moved with confidence and grace where many his size might seem oafish; a wreath of brown circled the back of his head and he had a full but well-trimmed mustache under a slightly crooked nose and wide-set, sympathetic dark eyes.
The tall man automatically stuck out his hand. His voice was mellow and he spoke softly, almost whispering. "Dustin Black-you gentlemen are with the police?"
Brass shook Black's hand, making short work of it. "I'm Captain Jim Brass and this is Doctor Gil Grissom, our top criminalist."
"That sounds impressive," Black said with a ready smile. "Nice to meet you, gentlemen." The mortician turned to Grissom and shook his hand also. "I'm a big supporter of you guys. I'm a member of the sheriff's auxiliary."
"Great," Grissom said with a forced smile, wondering why morticians always reminded him of ministers-or politicians. This one-both.
"I hope Jimmy wasn't too awkward with you, gentlemen."
Brass said, "Jimmy's your young greeter?" The boy had long since disappeared.
"Yes. It's his first time up front, but we have four showings right now. Kind of…bumper-to-bumper here today."
Grissom asked, "Jimmy's last name is?"
"His name is James Doyle. Why?"
The CSI shrugged. "I'm just curious by nature, Mr. Black."
"Ah. Well, Jimmy's been with me for years."
"Years?"
"Starting in high school, then as an intern during mortician's school, and since his graduation. But I have a big staff, Mr. Grissom, over a dozen employees…. How may I help you, gentlemen?"
Brass glanced around at the people milling in the foyer, some on their way out, others on their way in. "Is there some place we can talk in private?"
"Concerning?"
"Concerning," Brass said, "something you won't want us talking about in the lobby."
Black led them into a spacious room that was obviously his office.
As Grissom had expected, the mortician's inner sanctum was as tasteful and staid as the rest of Desert Haven-a large gleaming mahogany desk, a wall of beautifully bound, probably unread books, lithographs of wintry scenes of cabins and barns in New England. Behind Black's desk were three framed diplomas and a window whose wooden blinds were shut. A banker's lamp threw a warm yellow pool of light.
Two visitor's chairs in front of the desk looked freshly delivered and the whole office had a mild patchouli aroma to it. Black gestured for Brass and Grissom to sit as he circled his desk and dropped into his high-back leather chair.
This, Grissom thought, had to be the fake office, this sterile, impersonal room out of a furniture ad, a place where Black met with the grieving to offer support and advice in a blandly soothing surrounding; somewhere else in this building, an office with clutter and real work had to exist.