She shrugged. “He lawyered up. One of the symptoms of phosphorous poisoning is mental instability, so I don’t want to push him too hard-anything he says now might get thrown out later.”
“Does he seem irrational?”
“No, but who knows what he’ll be like after the lawyer finishes talking to him-he might start speaking in tongues and wearing his underpants on his head. I don’t think he’s my killer, anyway.”
“You have a working hypothesis?”
“Still putting it together, but it looks like Kanamu’s big gambling win threw him in the deep end of the drug pool. I think he just started hanging around with guys a lot heavier than he was used to and got in over his head.”
“So how does a killing over drugs produce a vic with wax in his lungs?”
“You ’ve been talking to the doc?”
“He mentioned a few details over tea.”
“That would be the part I’m still putting together…”
The sign over the door read PET CAVE in large, friendly letters. An old-fashioned bell tinkled when Grissom pulled open the door and stepped inside.
The store was large and clean, one wall lined with large aquariums and terrariums on four rows of shelves stretching from the midpoint toward the back. Two big pens dominated either side of the cashier’s island, right in the middle: one held puppies, the other kittens.
“Mr. Grissom!” The man who bustled up to him was shaped like a pear, dressed in an old-fashioned white lab coat with SOUTHFORD stenciled over the breast pocket. He had a wide smile on his wide face and a comb-over of hair dyed so black it looked like strands of black thread. “Haven’t seen you in a while. How’s Hank?”
“He’s fine. Putting on a little weight.”
Southford grinned and patted his own belly. “Well, it happens to all of us as we age, doesn’t it? I’ve got some good special diet stuff, perfect for a dog Hank’s size and age. I’ll throw in a sampler with your regular order of crickets, no charge-if he likes it, come back and I’ll give you a ten percent discount. Fifteen if you buy in bul k.”
“That’s very generous. Thank you.”
“How’s Sara?”
“She’s… away on a trip.”
“Oh? Not gone for too long, I hope.”
“No. No, I… I hope not.”
“Well, at least you have Hank to keep you company.”
“That’s true.” Grissom paused. “He misses her.”
Southford’s smile was gentle. “I’m sure she’ll be very glad to see him again. You know, I still remember the very first time you brought her here…”
So did Grissom.
The bell over the door tinkled.
“So this is it,” said Sara. “Not exactly what I imagined.”
Grissom walked in behind her. “Oh? What did you expect?”
“Something more… cave-like. Something more like your office.”
“My office is not a cave.”
“Oh, please. You could have bats roosting on the ceiling and no one would even notice. Except maybe Hodges-and he’d probably just compliment you on your excellent guano-collection technique… Oh! Puppies!”
Grissom smiled. Sara was already kneeling by the pen, sticking her fingers through the mesh and letting them lick her fingers. “They’re so adorable…”
“Yes,” Grissom said softly. “Adorable.”
“-that all, Mr. Grissom?” said Southford.
“Hmm? I’m sorry, Dale. Woolgathering… Actually, I was hoping to tal k to you about one of your customers-a teenage boy named Lucas Yannick?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Grissom.” Southford frowned. “My customer records are highly confidential. I’m afraid you’ll need a court order to get access to them.”
There was a moment of silence.
Southford burst into a fit of giggles. Grissom sighed, but he did so with a smile on his face.
“Sorry,” said Southford. “I couldn’t resist-I miss working at the lab sometimes. Sure, I know the kid you’re talking about-let me just pull up his file.”
He went behind the cashier’s counter and tapped a few keys on the keyboard. “Here you go-Lucas Yannick. He’s got a Chilean rose-haired tarantula, a striped scorpion, and a praying mantis. Comes in here to buy bug chow.”
Grissom knew “bug chow” meant feeder crickets; spiders and scorpions preferred their food to still be kicking. “Did he ever order anything else? Millipedes, for instance?”
“No, nothing like that. Seemed interested in a snake the last time he was here, though-could be he’s decided to move up, evolutionarily speaking.”
“Thanks, Dale. I’ll pick up that dog food later, if you don’t mind.”
“Sure. Say hello to Sara for me, will you? When she gets back.”
Grissom glanced down at where t wo puppies were wrestling happily. “I’ll do that,” he said.
Diego Molinez stared levelly across the interview table at Catherine. There was no overt hostility in his face, just the blank hardness of someone used to prison.
“Consorting with known felons is a violation of your parole,” said Catherine. “I could have you sent back to a cell right now.”
Diego didn’t respond. Then again, she hadn’t really asked him a question.
“Tell me what I need to know and that doesn’t have to happen,” she continued. “Security footage at the Braun Suites shows you, Lester Akiliano, and Aaron Tyford visiting Hal Kanamu. Hal knew how to party, didn’t he?”
“So?”
“So sometimes a party can get out of hand. Maybe somebody says the wrong thing. Things get out of control-”
“It wasn’t like that.”
“No? Tell me how it was, then.”
“We respected each other. That’s all.”
Catherine studied him for a minute. If there was one principle Grissom had drilled into her, it was that the evidence never lied-but people did. Even so, people were always part of the equation, and Catherine’s ability to read people was finely tuned. Respect was one of those key words in Diego’s world, not one he used lightly. If he was going to lie to her, she didn’t th ink he would do it using that particular term.
He was telling the truth. And she knew what that meant.
6
CLIVE CRABTREE STOOD on the sidewalk, watching the artificial volcano in front of the Mirage erupt. He thought he knew how it felt.
Clive had never been to Vegas before. Gambling had never been his thing, or his wife’s, and seeing big glitzy shows with topless showgirls didn’t really appeal to him, either. But the shift in the 1990s toward a more family-friendly Vegas had changed his attitude; roller coasters and theme restaurants and acts like the Blue Man Group seemed more his speed. Plus, both Clive and his wife had been known to enjoy the occasional buffet, and there had never been any shortage of those in the city.
Fireballs shot into t h e air to the rumble of explosions-recordings of actual volcanic eruptions, Clive had heard. He could feel the heat of the flames on his face, though he doubted real volcanoes came with a drum soundtrack and smelled like a piña colada.
Their first mistake had been to book rooms in a resort they’d never heard of. The ad had claimed it was on the Strip, but that was only technically true; it was at the very end of Las Vegas Boulevard, about as far as you could get from the Strip and still be on the same street. The promised five-star accommodation had turned out to be more like one, and Clive suspected it was a star in danger of burning out. Construction next door had woken them up at six in the morning, and they’d been forced to park across the street because the resort’s parking lot was full of heavy equipment and building supplies.
Smoke and fire belched into the air. Flames da nced on red-tinted water intended to simulate lava. Clive wondered if the pirates next door at Treasure Island ever got a headache from all the noise. Probably not; a propensity toward migraines didn’t tend to steer you down the buccaneer career path.