Robbins blinked at Grissom blearily from his bed in the ICU unit of Vegas General. He was propped in a sitting position, a swiveling tray over his lap. His prosthetic legs had been removed, creating the disturbing illusion that he wasn’t so much lying in bed as part of it, a sort of mattress centaur.
“How are you , Al?” asked Grissom.
“I feel like I was thrown in an industrial washing machine with a dozen baseball bats. What the hell, Gil?”
“You were bitten by a poisonous spider indigenous to South America. They sometimes show up in shipments of bananas.”
“I hate to tell you this, Grissom, but if there were any bananas around this spider, they were in the process of being digested.” He winced and held up his hand, which was beet red and extremely swollen. “Little bastard got me good.”
“The venom contains a high degree of serotonin- that’s what makes it so painful. In fact, once the serotonin wears off you may experience a downturn in mood-like coming off antidepressants.”
“Oh, good, something to look forward to.”
“Don’t worry, I captured it.”
“Don’t suppose you’d leave me and it alone in a room with my crutch, would you?”
Grissom smiled. “A rematch? I think you need to get back in shape first.”
“I don’t know if I already said this, but-what the hell, Gil?”
“I think this is related to the Harribold case.”
“First millipedes, now a spider. Both used as weapons.”
“That’s how it appears, yes.”
“So we’ve got a psycho on our hands?”
Grissom raised his eyebrows. “I think that judgment’s a little premature. We have someone with a knowledge of entomology, that’s undeniable. What’s more troubling is his choice of victims.”
“I’d have to agree with you on that one.”
Grissom shook his head. “The first victim was stalked online, with a great deal of preparation. The second attack was an elaborate trap, but its target was one of circumstance-the spider could have bitten anyone who was present at the autopsy. It could have been me.”
“Maybe it’s just the drugs they gave me, but I’m not sure I follow. Are these random killings or carefully orchestrated?”
“Both. It isn’t the identity of the victim that’s important,” said Grissom. “It’s how they die.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not planning on dying just yet.”
“Good. I’d hate to have to train another coroner.”
“You’re going to keep the damn spider, aren’t you?”
“It’s evidence. But they only live a year or two, anyway.”
“That’s a real consolation.”
“Is there anything I can bring you? Reading material, something to eat?”
Robbins shook his head. “I don’t think so. I ache too much to concentrate, and I’m too nauseous to eat.”
“Let me get that tray out of the way, then.”
Robbins stopped him by grabbing the tray with his good hand. “You can leave that, actually.”
Grissom frowned-and then a look of understanding crossed his face. “Oh. I don’t know if you know this about the Ph oneutria species, but one of the side effects of the venom is priapism. It’s actually being studied as an anti-impotence drug.”
“I wondered. It’s temporary, right?”
Grissom smiled. “Let’s just say that when it comes time for you to testify, it won’t stand up in court.”
“You can go now.”
Hodges looked up from his microscope. “The sample you brought me,” he told Catherine, “was crap.”
Catherine refused to rise to the bait. “I know that. What I need from you is what kind of crap it is.”
“Oh. Bovine. But what may be of more interest is what said moo-cow was eating that became the crap.”
“Which would be?”
“Eustoma exaltatum, or as it’s more commonly known, catchfly prairie gentian. A pretty purple flower, to be prosaic.”
“And what sort of distribution would the pretty purple flower have?”
“Sadly, widespread-at least in California. In Nevada, though, it’s made it onto the at-risk botanical list; there’s only one place it’s known to grow, out at Red Rock Springs.”
She nodded. “So I’m looking for a rural property near Red Rock. Thanks.”
“I live to please.”
“Okay,” said Greg. He and Catherine were in the layout room, comparing notes on the light table. “Here’s w hat I’ve got. Kanamu was hanging around the Burner community, but they weren’t comfortable with his drug use. He tried to convince an art collective that calls itself the Phyre Brigade to change gears on the art project they were already half-finished with to work on his, but they turned him down and turfed him because of the drugs.”
“What did he want them to build?”
Greg shrugged. “It changed depending on how high he was, but a volcano goddess was mentioned. And a fire-breathing shark.”
“What happened after they cut him loose?”
“Apparently he hooked up with another artist, but I haven’t been able to track him down. Still working on it.”
“All right. Lester Akiliano led me to three meth heads named Boz Melnyk, Aaron Tyford, and Diego Molinez. They didn’t have any problem with Kanamu’s using; in fact, I think they planned on going into business with him. According to them, he wasn’t interested.”
“You think they killed him over it?”
“Maybe-but the funds had to be for expansion, not start-up. They’re already in business.” She told him about the phossy jaw.
“Glow-in-the-dark grin, huh?” He shook his head. “Eit her of the other two have alibis?”
“Each other. Claim to have been up late watching movies at Melnyk’s place, which I’ve been to. A palace it isn’t. And I found something interesting-though disgusting-while I was there.” She described the garage, the crates of urine, and the manure sample that Hodges had analyzed.
“Red Rock Springs,” said Greg. “Can’t be that many properties within grazing range. Let’s do a title search and see what we come up with.”
“My turn to be one step ahead.” She handed him a printout. “Ready to go hang out with some livestock?”
“Okay, but this time I’m wearing boots.”
They knew they’d found it by the smell.
It was an abandoned barn, turned a faded gray by the elements, half its roof gone. Where a farmhouse once stood was only the crumbling remains of a stone chimney. A narrow dirt track led up to it, but there was no vehicle visible.
Catherine parked the Denali a good distance away and rolled down her window. The prevailing wind carried a chemical stink both she and Greg recognized immediately.
“Think anyone’s in there right now?” asked Greg.
“If they are,” she said, pulling out her cell phone, “they’re gonna wish they weren’t.”
The Las Vegas Police Department didn’t screw around when it came to meth labs. Even though the number of operati ons had dropped drastically in the last few years, largely supplanted by Mexican “superlabs” that smuggled their product across the border, there was always a local chemical entrepreneur willing to start his own enterprise-and the LVPD had learned not to take any chances with the smaller variety. The smaller the lab, the more likely it was run by addicts; that increased the danger on several levels.
Methamphetamine produced a wide variety of effects, both physical and psychological. Of the latter, paranoia and a compulsion to tinker-sometimes manifesting as dismantling and reassembling electronics-often led to a lethal tendency to build booby traps to protect the lab itself. Tweakers could be endlessly inventive: pit bulls, venomous snakes, even alligators were used as watchdogs; automatic weapons were trained on doors, triggers attached to doorknobs with fishing line; canisters of homemade poisonous gas or large amounts of high explosive were wired to light switches.