When the Lexus pulled into the castle's driveway, Arthur said, "Now let me handle this."
Again, no argument from Millie on that score. She just nodded, then-almost hiding behind him-she followed her husband up the curving walk to the front door.
Arthur rang the bell and they waited. After thirty seconds or so, he rang it again, three times in rapid insistent succession. Again they waited almost a half a minute, an endless span to spend standing on a front porch; but this time as Arthur reached for the button, the door jerked open and they found themselves face-to-face with Lynn's husband-Owen Pierce himself.
Muscular in his gray Nike sweats, with silver glints in his dark hair, Pierce had striking blue eyes, and a ready, winning smile that displayed many white, straight teeth. Pierce's face seemed to explode in delight. "Well, Art! Millie! What a nice surprise-what are you doing here? I mean…" He chuckled, apparently embarrassed that that might have sound ungracious. "How are you? We didn't have plans for dinner or something tonight, did we? Lynn didn't say anything…"
The therapist's grin seemed forced, and his words came too fast and were delivered too loudly. Arthur again considered those drug rumors. "No, no plans tonight, Owen. We were hoping to speak to Lynn."
"Lynn?" Pierce frowned in confusion, as if this were a name he'd never heard before.
"Yes," Arthur said. "Lynn. You remember, Owen-your wife?"
An uncomfortable silence followed, as Pierce apparently tried to read Arthur's words and tone.
Finally, Millie stepped forward. "Owen, Lynn called me earlier, and said she was coming to see me…then she never showed up."
"Oh!" He smiled again, less dazzlingly. "Is that what this is about…."
Millie said, "It's just not like her, Owen. She would have called me, if she had a change in plans."
Pierce's smile finally faded and his eyes tightened. "Her brother called. She barely took time to tell me! Something about an illness, and how they needed her there. You know how she jumps to, when her family's involved. Anyway, she packed a few things and left, lickety split."
What a load of bull,Arthur thought. He knew Lynn Pierce wouldn't leave the city without telling Millie where she was headed, and how long she'd be gone-particularly when Lynn had told Millie she was coming "right over"! Something was definitely not right here.
Arthur considered the tape in Millie's purse. Should he confront Pierce about it?
As Arthur was mulling this, his wife took a step nearer to Pierce, saying, "I'm sorry, but I don't believe you, Owen. Lynn would never…"
A frown crossed Pierce's face and Millie fell silent. The expression replacing the phony smile was all too sincere: as if a rock had been lifted and the real Owen had been glimpsed wriggling there in the dirt.
Over the years, the Blairs had both seen Pierce lose his temper, and it was never a pleasant sight-like a boiler exploding. Arthur took Millie gently if firmly by the arm and turned her toward the car. "Excuse us, Owen. Millie's just concerned about Lynn, you know how women are."
Pierce twitched a sort of grin.
As the couple moved away, Arthur said, "Hope Lynn has a good trip, Owen. Have her give us a call when she gets back, would you?…Thanks."
And all the time he spoke, Arthur steered Millie toward the car at the curb. She did not protest-she knew her place-but when he finally got her in the car, backed out of the driveway, and drove away from Owen Pierce and the castle house, she demanded an explanation.
"Don't you worry, darling," Arthur said. "We'll do something about that evil bastard."
Sometimes, when a swear word slipped out of him, she would scold him. He almost looked forward to the familiarity of it.
But tonight, she said only, "Good. Good. Good."
And she sat beside him in the vehicle, with her fists clenched, the purse in her lap…and that tape, that terrible tape, in the purse.
2
CAPTAIN JIM BRASS AMBLED DOWN THE HALL TOWARD THE washed-out aqua warren of offices that served as headquarters for the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau, a coldly modern institutional setting for the number-two crime lab in the country. The sad-eyed detective was sharply attired-gray sports coat over a blue shirt, darker blue tie with gray diagonal stripes, and navy slacks-and his low-key demeanor masked a dogged professionalism.
A cellophane bag dangled from the detective's right hand, an audio tape within. Slowing to peer through various half-windowed walls, Brass passed several rooms before he found the CSI graveyard shift supervisor, Gil Grissom, in the break room at a small table, hunkered over a cup of coffee and a pile of papers. Dressed in black and wearing his wire-framed reading glasses, the CSI chief looked like a cross between a gunfighter and a science geek, Brass thought, then realized that that was a pretty accurate mix.
Grissom-one of the top forensic entomologists in the country, among other things-was in his mid-forties, with his boyishly handsome features seemingly set in a state of perpetual preoccupation. Brass liked Gil, and felt that what some considered coldness in the man was really a self-imposed coolness, a detachment designed to keep the CSI chief's eye on facts and his emotions in check.
Brass pulled up a chair. "Latest issue of Cockroach Racing Monthly?"
Grissom shook his head, and responded as if the detective's question had been serious. "Staffing reports. Scuttlebutt is the County Board wants to cut the budget for next year."
"I heard that, too." Brass sighed. "Doesn't election time just bring out the best in people?"
Grissom gave him a pursed-lipped look that had nothing to do with blowing a kiss.
"Maybe you need something to put you in a better mood, Gil-like threats of dismemberment."
Grissom offered Brass another look, this one piqued with interest.
Brass held up the plastic baggie and waved it like a hypnotist's watch, Grissom's eyes following accordingly. "Among your state-of-the-art, cutting-edge equipment…you got a cassette player?"
Nodding, rising, removing his glasses, Grissom said, "In my office. What have you got?" He gathered up the pile of papers, the cup of coffee, and led Brass out into the hall.
The detective fell in alongside Grissom as they moved down the corridor. "Interesting turn of events, just now, out at the front desk."
"Really?"
They moved into Grissom's office.
"Really."
Brass had only lately ceased to be creeped out by Grissom's inner sanctum, with its shelves of such jarred oddities as a pickled piglet and various embalmed animal and human organs, and assorted living, crawling creatures-a tarantula, a two-headed scorpion-in glassed-in homes. At least the batteries had finally worn down on the Big Mouth Billy Bass just above Grissom's office door.
A desk sat in the middle of the methodically cluttered office, canted at a forty-five-degree angle, two vinyl-covered metal frame chairs in front of it. Brass handed the bag over to Grissom, then plopped into a chair. Behind his desk, Grissom sat and placed the bag on his blotter like a jeweler mounting a stone. From the top righthand drawer, he withdrew a pair of latex gloves and placed them next to the bag.
"Is this all tease," Grissom said, hands folded, "or do you plan to put out?"
Brass sat back, crossed his legs, twitched a non-smile. "This couple comes in tonight, to the front desk. Nice people, late thirties, early forties-straight as they come. He's in the finance department at UNLV."
Grissom nodded.
"Arthur and Millie Blair. They say their friend, woman named Lynn Pierce, has disappeared…and they think something 'bad' has happened to her."
Grissom's eyes tightened, just a little. "How long has Lynn Pierce been missing?"
Checking his watch, Brass said, "About seven hours."