Shock Treatment (14 page)

C
ATHERINE'S OFFICE WAS
smaller than her job.

Ecklie had offered her Grissom's old office when she had taken over the night shift, but it just hadn't felt right, like she was living in someone else's house. Besides, she was comfortable here in her old corner office. Ferns and flowers counteracted the sometimes sterile feel of the crime lab. Ceramic plates and decorative glassware added a feminine touch. Framed photos of Lindsey, taken at various ages, reminded her that there was more to life than just blood spatter evidence. A brass name placard staked out her turf. A potted cactus needed watering. Blinds on the rear windows kept out the glare from the late-night traffic outside, while the clear glass wall facing her desk offered her a view of the corridor outside and the DNA lab across the hall. Subdued blue-green walls enclosed the rest of the office. Catherine routinely kept her door open to remain accessible to her people.

The autopsy report on Matt Novak was spread out on top of her desk. Aside from a pair of spooky “bloodshot” contact lenses, Doc Robbins had found nothing unexpected. The abrasion collar and smudging around the entry wound suggested that the fatal shot had been fired from slightly more than two feet away, as described by the witnesses. No additional ammo or wounds had been found during the postmortem. Novak had been killed by a single bullet from Jill Wooten's revolver. Just like everyone said.

But had she really thought she was in danger?

Brass rapped on her door. “Got a moment?”

“Come on in.” Catherine looked up from the report. She took off her reading glasses. “What have you got?”

Brass looked tired from running down leads all day. Even though they were both technically on the night shift, practicality dictated that a lot of the footwork had to be conducted during daylight hours, when witnesses were up and about and shops and places were open for business. Squeezing in a few hours of sleep here and there could be a challenge. Catherine couldn't remember the last time she'd gotten a full eight hours. Maybe the last time she was in the hospital?

“I've been checking out Jill's story.” He sank gratefully into a chair, resting his feet. “Turns out she did have a TRO out against her ex, who sounds like a real winner. Apparently he used to work as a trainer at her gym, but was fired for sexually harassing female customers. According to an affidavit Jill submitted over a year ago, he was not happy when
she eventually ditched his sorry ass. He allegedly stalked her at her home and work, sent her hostile emails, and even tried breaking into her apartment one time.”

Catherine disliked him already. She had a zero-tolerance policy when it came to abusive boyfriends and husbands. “No wonder Jill thinks he's responsible for those anonymous calls. He'd be my prime suspect, too. And her history with him definitely speaks to her state of mind at the time she fired the revolver.”

“What about the gun?” Brass asked. “Any way the show could have known she might have it?”

Catherine shook her head. “The gun wasn't registered.” Which meant that Jill had obtained the weapon illegally, perhaps because she hadn't wanted to wait for the mandatory 72-hour “cooling off” period. “No concealed weapons permit either.”

In order to get a CCW permit in Clark County, a resident had to submit an application, complete an approved firearms course, get photographed and fingerprinted, pass a background check, and pay over a hundred dollars in fees. The process could take as long as six months, which was probably also longer than a frightened stalking victim was willing to wait.

“Figures,” Brass muttered. “You run a trace on the gun?”

“Naturally, not that it did us much good.” She pulled the printout from the file. “It was reported ‘stolen' from a gun shop in Reno three years ago.”

Both of them knew that “stolen” was often a euphemism for an illegal, under-the-table sale. Literally
thousands of handguns and rifles were reported “lost” or “stolen” every year by less than reputable gun dealers. Many of those misplaced firearms ended up on the black market, rendering them more or less untraceable, which didn't exactly make Catherine's job any easier. Sometimes it seemed like it was easier to get a gun than a restraining order.

Wonder if Jill felt the same way? Especially this time around.

Even if Novak's death was chalked up to misadventure, Jill was still going to be in hot water for carrying an unregistered, concealed weapon without a permit. But her bad luck was possibly good news for the TV show and its lawyers.

“Sounds like Park was telling the truth in one respect,” she observed. “Jill's gun would have slipped past their background check. No registration, no paper trail.” She put away the report on the gun. “You got anything else for me?”

“Don't I always?” He reached under his jacket and pulled out a handheld digital recorder. “Jill gave us permission to lift those threatening phone calls off her voice mail. Phone records confirm that she got the last one a few hours before her job interview.” He held up the gadget and clicked it on. “Get an earful.”

A harsh, whispery voice, with a distinctly Southern twang, emanated from the recorder:

“Listen to me, you bitch! You better watch your back, ‘cause I'm coming for you. Just when you least expect it, you're going to get what's coming to you . . . and then some! Don't even think you can get away from me. I'm going nuclear on you, baby. You're going to die screaming. . . .”

Brass clicked off the recorder. “That's just a sample. There's plenty more where that came from.”

The temperature in the office seemed to have dropped several degrees. Catherine had been on the receiving end of her fair share of threats, but the vicious message still gave her a chill. If that really was Craig Gonch on the tape, she understood why Jill would want a restraining order—and a gun. “Well. I can't imagine why anyone would be jumpy after getting a call like that.”

“Unless this has all been staged for our benefit,” Brass speculated. “To make a premeditated murder look like a misunderstanding.”

Catherine had thought of that, too. “But why would she want to kill Novak? As far as we know, they'd never met before.”

“Well, that's the million-dollar question, isn't it?”

She took the recorder from Brass. She turned it over in her hands, wondering what Archie might be able to do with it.

“It would help if we knew for sure whose voice is on that tape.”

Heather Gilroy's address led Sara to a low-budget apartment building across the street from a Choozy's Chicken franchise. She and Vartann compared notes on the case as they took the stairs to the fifth floor. The run-down building reminded Sara of her first apartment in San Francisco, right after college. Sadly, there was no elevator.

“This is my second time here,” Vartann said. “We've been trying to get hold of Gilroy since yesterday, but so far she's in the wind.” A long corridor,
painted an institutional shade of beige, ran down the middle of two facing rows of apartments. Muffled noises escaped the thin walls. They counted down the doors to the right address. No light escaped the peephole. Sara didn't hear a TV or stereo blaring inside. Vartann knocked on the door. “Let's hope she's home this time.”

Sara had come along to take Heather's fingerprints, as well any other evidence that might present itself. Before she could determine whether there were any suspicious prints on the vivarium, she had to be able to eliminate the masseuse's prints, which meant getting exemplars from Heather.

If we can find her,
she thought.

As she let Vartann take point, she couldn't resist checking him out on the sly. Not for herself, but because she had gotten inklings that something might be developing between Vartann and Catherine, an impression that the other woman had cagily neither confirmed nor denied. Sara had worked with the laconic detective before, of course, but now she evaluated him from a different perspective.

Not bad,
she concluded. Beneath his conservative dark suit, Vartann appeared to be in good shape. His lean, somewhat severe features had a certain appeal, if you liked tough guys. Catherine could, and had, done worse, especially if she was going to date a cop.

Vartann rapped harder on the door. He raised his voice. “LVPD. Open up.”

No one came to the door. Sara listened closely, but did not hear anyone stirring inside. It was pushing eight p.m., a few hours before her next shift
officially started, but sometimes you had to fudge the hours if you wanted to catch people at a sane hour. It was a weeknight, so hopefully Heather wouldn't be out tonight. Then again, Sara recalled, the runaway masseuse didn't have a job anymore.

A minute or two passed.

“Looks like we struck out again,” Sara said.

“Yeah.” Vartann took a break from knocking. “Sorry to waste your time dragging you out here.”

“No problem.” She wondered if Vartann was disappointed to be paired with her instead of Catherine. Or was it easier to concentrate on the case without any distracting sexual chemistry involved? Workplace romances could be tricky, as she knew better than most. On the other hand, she and Gil had worked out eventually. Maybe Catherine and Vartann had a shot, too.

Or was she getting ahead of herself?

Probably.

“If I didn't know better,” Sara observed, “I'd think Heather Gilroy was avoiding us.”

“Me, too.” He scowled at the door. “Makes me wonder what she's got to hide.”

A final emphatic knock proved equally futile. Alas, they did not have probable cause to force their way in, and Sara doubted they could get a warrant unless it could be proven categorically that Rita Segura had been bitten on purpose. They didn't even have grounds enough to put out a BOLO alert on Heather. All they had her on was fleeing the scene of a snakebite, which probably wasn't illegal. Sara prayed that Heather had not left town to avoid the heat.

Stymied for now, they turned back toward the stairs. Sara wasn't looking forward to lugging her gear back down five flights of stairs.

“Excuse me, are you looking for Heather?”

An unexpected voice, coming from the apartment across the hall, called them back. Sara turned around to see a curious neighbor standing in a doorway. The speaker was an overweight Caucasian woman, maybe retirement age, wearing a bright red Snuggie. The ridiculous garment made her look like she had her bathrobe on backward. It was not a good look—for anybody.

“Yes, we are.” Sara felt a surge of hope. Maybe they had caught a lucky break. “Have you seen her lately?”

“Not since yesterday,” the woman volunteered. “Which I admit has been something of a blessed relief.”

Sara sensed the woman had something she wanted to get off her chest. “And why is that?”

“For the first time in weeks, I haven't had to endure that yappy little dog of hers. Usually, it's barking its head off all the time, enough to drive you absolutely crazy.” She directed her grievance at Vartann. “You're with the police, you said? Surely that kind of disturbance can't be legal. Having a noisy dog like that when your neighbors are trying to sleep?”

“You have my sympathy,” Vartann said in a noncommittal manner. He was clearly in no hurry to get sucked into a routine nuisance complaint. “And you are?”

“Camille Bozian,” she answered. “5-D.”

Sara realized that she was referring to her apartment number. Heather Gilroy lived in 5-E. “Do you have any idea where we might be able to find her?”

“Not in the slightest,” Bozian said. “But wherever she is, she obviously took that irritating mutt with her. He always barks worst when she's not at home. Usually during the afternoon when I'm trying to get my beauty rest.”

“When was the last time you saw her?” Vartann asked.

“Yesterday morning, I think.” Bozian paused to replay the encounter in her mind. “I tried to catch her as she was rushing out to work, to speak to her about the dog again, but she said she was running late.” The older woman clucked indignantly. “Five minutes later, the dog started yapping again. . . .”

First the dog, then the snakes. It sounded like Heather was having all sorts of animal control issues yesterday. Sara wondered where she might have taken refuge after the alarming incident at The Nile. “Do you know if she has a boyfriend?”

“Not that I know of,” Bozian said. “Unless you count Jonas.”

That sounds promising,
Sara thought. “Who is Jonas?”

Bozian rolled her eyes. “The damn dog, who else?”

The audio/visual lab was one door down from Catherine's office. As usual, it took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. Archie Johnson liked to keep the lights low to avoid any glare on the multiple screens and monitors crammed into the lab. The
distinctive aroma of microwave popcorn, lingering in the air, gave the lab the feel of a one-man multiplex. The A/V center was one of the few labs in the complex where food was allowed, since there was no DNA or trace evidence to be contaminated, just pixels and electrons. Most of the lab rats had to confine their late-night snacks to the break room at the end of the hall.

Just as long as they keep the munchies away from Toxicology,
Catherine thought.

His back to the door, Archie sat in front of an expensive array of high-tech computer monitors. An even larger plasma screen was halfway up the rear wall of the lab, directly facing the young gadget guru's workstation. Archie could transfer any image to the large screen with just a few strokes on his keyboard. Headphones were clapped over his ear, cutting him off from the everyday buzz of the lab. A glowing computer monitor displayed a spectrographic analysis of an audio recording. The timing, frequency, amplitude, and resonance of the sound were charted as fuzzy bands along an x–y axis, providing a permanent visual representation. A good analyst employed both his eyes and his ears.