S omething about Ray Lipton—his grieving manner, more than his words—made Catherine Willows want to believe his story. Of course, Catherine had also believed her ex-husband, Eddie, and she knew how well that had turned out.

However much her heart wanted Lipton not to have done it, the evidence told another story: the videotape (beard or no beard), the history of fighting, the weapon…everything pointed toward Ray. Odds were, he’d done the murder—and these were a hell of a lot better odds than you could get at any casino in town.

Greg Sanders poked his spiky-haired head into her office. “No prints on that electrical tie.”

Catherine looked up from the pile of papers on her desk with a frustrated frown. “Not even a partial?”

“Of the killer, I mean.” Sanders stepped inside the office, hands on hips. “Couple of smudges and a couple on the sides—all the vic’s.” He shook his head. “Poor baby only had a few seconds before the strap would’ve cut off the blood flow to her brain, y’know.”

Catherine nodded gravely.

The often jokey Sanders was dead serious. “She gave it her best—tried to get a hold of it and failed. So she was an exotic dancer, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“Yeah, okay…well, I’ll just get back to it, then.”

Sitting back and closing her eyes and sighing, Catherine let her weight rock the chair. She sat there for a long moment, just thinking, processing the new information, sorting out her emotional reactions and putting them in one mental pile (marked “Catherine”), placing the facts in another (marked “Grissom”). Something tiny gnawed at the back of her brain…small but tenacious.

“Hey.”

With a start, Catherine sat forward to see Sara standing in front of her.

“Hey,” Catherine said.

“You ready to go?”

“…Sure.”

Sara frowned as she studied Catherine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you…I just thought we’d go check out Lipton’s truck.”

Catherine rubbed her eyes. “Good idea. I could stand getting out of here.”

Sara gestured toward the PD wing. “Conroy has to book Lipton, and then she wants to meet us at Jenna’s apartment, to search it? And to tell her roommate the bad news.” A little what-the-hell shrug—“I thought we could do Lipton’s truck on the way. We probably oughta log the overtime while the case is still fresh.”

Catherine nodded and rose. “Okay.”

Lipton Construction had a corner building in an industrial park east of the airport. A one-story stucco affair with smoked-glass windows, dating back decades—ancient history in this town—it crouched like an ungainly beast near the entrance to the park, far away from the heavier industry. A couple of pickups and a Honda Accord sat in the otherwise empty parking lot out front. To the left, behind a gate and an eight-foot cyclone fence, lurked a few heavy-construction machines. Down the side of the building, two garage doors opened onto the fenced-in lot.

Sara pulled the Tahoe into the parking lot and eased into the spot next to the green Accord. Catherine wondered if any of these people knew what had happened to their boss—and their boss’s fiancée—last night. They parked and climbed out of the SUV, Sara lugging a field kit.

Sara, as if reading Catherine’s mind, asked, “You think they know?”

“Probably not.”

“Just the same, walking in there, cold…. Any ideas?”

Holding up a finger in a “wait” manner, Catherine said, “Just one.” She plucked her cell phone from her purse, punched in a number, pushed SEND, and waited.

Finally, a voice on the other end picked up. “Conroy.”

“Willows. Lipton still being cooperative?”

“Yeah. Still claims he was home alone, too.”

“Innocent people don’t always have alibis, you know.”

“Is that what you think he is?” the detective asked. “Innocent?”

“I think he’s a suspect. And if he still wants to impress us with his cooperative attitude, why don’t you have him call his construction company and pave the way for us?”

“You really think that’s necessary?”

“Detective Conroy, if Lipton makes the call, his people just might be more anxious to help than if we just barge in and tell them that we’ve arrested their boss on suspicion of murder.”

“Good point. Where are you?”

“At Lipton Construction—in the parking lot.”

“Sit tight,” Conroy said. “I’ll call you back in five minutes.”

Conroy more than kept her promise, Catherine’s cell ringing in just under five.

“Lipton made the call for us,” Conroy said. “He told them to play ball. They’re expecting you.”

“Good. Thanks.”

“Catherine, I’ll be questioning Lipton’s people later today; but if you hear anything interesting, during the course of your evidentiary search, write it down, and let me know when we meet up at Jenna’s apartment—so I have the info, going in.”

“I hear you,” Catherine said with a smile, and clicked off.

“We got the go-ahead?” Sara asked.

“Yeah. Lipton’s staff is waiting for us…and Conroy gave us her roundabout blessing for a little off-the-cuff interrogation.”

They walked into a roomy, undistinguished office with cream-colored walls, a handful of desks and a few file cabinets. Just inside the door they were addressed by a young woman sitting behind a metal desk, immediately to their left.

“You the cops, already?” she asked, her voice cold.

“LV Metro PD,” Catherine said, displaying her I.D. “Crime scene investigators.”

At a cluttered desk farther to the left, behind the woman’s tidier one, sat a heavy-set thirty-something guy in an open flannel shirt and a Bulls T-shirt, eyeing the two female callers suspiciously over a mountain of papers. To his left, in the back corner, was a closed door; nearer them in the back, off to the right, a third desk sat empty.

“Ray said you were coming,” the ash blonde said sullenly. “What, were you out in the parking lot all the time?”

Sara stepped forward, to the edge of the woman’s desk. “Do you have a problem?”

Catherine quickly moved beside Sara, touching her arm, and said to the woman, pleasantly, “Who runs the office, please?”

“Mr. Lipton does.” The ash blonde’s voice was trembling and it seemed like she might cry. “And he’s innocent. Ray Lipton has his faults, but he’s not a killer.”

“We don’t decide that,” Catherine said, rather disingenuously. “We just gather evidence.”

The heavy-set man used the desk to help him rise. “Crime scene investigators, huh?” He had a deep, boomy voice that rattled up out of his chest like he was speaking from inside a trash can.

Catherine moved away from the secretary/receptionist’s desk, to make eye contact with the hulking figure. “That’s right. We’d like to see Mr. Lipton’s office and his company truck.”

Stepping out from behind the desk, which looked like a a playhouse toy next to him, the mountainous man lumbered forward, talking as he went: “Was that girl killed here or something? You saying this is a crime scene? Are you kiddin’?”

Sara, who did not suffer fools gladly, looked about to burst, and Catherine could just see the citizen’s complaint forms come flying into the office, after the Sidle social skills went into full force.

Holding Sara back gently, Catherine said, “We need to investigate all aspects, all avenues, of a crime…not just the scene of the crime itself.”

The big man deposited himself before them. “Ray’s a stand-up guy,” he said, his eyes burning into Catherine’s. “He’s not the killer type.”

Chin up, Sara asked mock-innocently, “Is he the restraining-order type?”

The big man turned his gaze on the younger woman, sucking in air—the buttons on his flannel shirt threatening to pop and reveal the Bulls T-shirt in toto. Then the air rushed out: “That was bullshit. He never did nothin’ like that!”

“Like what?” Sara pressed.

Catherine stepped between them. “Sir, we’re not going to debate the issue. This is police business. As I said, we’re only here to have a look at Mr. Lipton’s office and truck.”

Still staring at Sara, the big man seemed to buckle a bit; then he said, “Well, all right—but we’re only cooperatin’ ’cause Ray told us to.”

“So that’s what this is,” Sara said. “Cooperation.”

Wincing, Catherine raised a hand. “Thank you, sir. We understand. And you should understand that we are here as much to look for evidence to exonerate Mr. Lipton as anything else.”

He considered that, doubtfully, then said, “This way, ladies.”

Catherine fell in alongside him, and Sara brought up the rear.

“I’m Catherine Willows, and this is Sara Sidle. And you are?”

“Mike. Howtlen.”

He opened the door at the rear of the office, leading them into a corridor with another door on the left and one at the far end. “Ray’s office is here.” He gestured toward the closest of the doors. “And the truck, it’s in the bay, in back.”

The big man opened the office door and they all stepped inside. This was a colorless oversized cubicle with a messy desk, two filing cabinets, a couch against one wall, and—for the man who thought it unacceptable for his girl friend to be a stripper—a Hooters calendar.

“What’s your job here, Mr. Howtlen?” Catherine asked.

“One of the job foremen.”

“I see. And how long have you worked for Mr. Lipton?”

“Ever since Ray went into business for himself…. Six years.”

“Do you have a Lipton Construction jacket?”

He looked at her funny. “Why do you ask that?”

“I’d appreciate it if you’d just answer, sir.”

He shrugged, nodded. “Yeah, sure. I got a jacket. We all do.”

“Define ‘all.’ ”

Another shrug. “Twenty employees, here at Lipton Construction. We all got one. Ray’s generous, and we’re cheap advertising.”

Well, Catherine thought, Howtlen would make a hell of a billboard, at that.

Sara had slipped on latex gloves and now moved around to the rear of the desk. She opened the top righthand drawer and fingered Scotch tape, a ruler, pencils, rubber bands. Slowly, she worked her way toward the back.

Howtlen’s eyes were riveted on Sara—whether in suspicion or interest or just because Sara Sidle was cute, Catherine couldn’t say.

What she could say, to Howtlen, was, “Can you put together a list for us, of everyone who has one of those Lipton Construction jackets?”

The foreman said nothing as he watched Sara shut the top drawer and move down to the next one. His face turned pink and he seemed to be gritting his teeth. So it wasn’t Sara’s good looks that had his attention: Howtlen was bridling at the indignity of their CSI invasion of Lipton territory.

Catherine took a step and gently laid a hand on his arm. “Mr. Howtlen?”

He shook his head and looked down at Catherine. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Sir, remember—what we find may clear Mr. Lipton.”

“Should I believe you?”

“Off the record, sir—I have a hunch Mr. Lipton’s innocent myself.”

Sara flinched, but pretended not to hear it.

Howtlen said, “You’re not just sayin’ that.”

“No. But it’s my job to find out, either way—if Ray did kill his girlfriend, you wouldn’t want him to have a pass, would you?”

“I…no. Of course not.”

“Good. Now about that list, Mr. Howtlen? Of jackets?”

“Yeah, sure—puttin’ that together shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Mr. Lipton told us he gave them to preferred customers, too.”

“Oh, shit, come to think of it, yeah…but I have no idea who that’d be. But Jodi, that’s the gal out front, she’d probably know…. Yeah, no problem. We’ll get you that list.”

The now truly cooperative Howtlen left then to fill Catherine’s request, and the CSIs got down to work. Ninety minutes later they had pretty much dissected everything in the office and found nothing of value. The business records in the file cabinet, Catherine decided, could be left behind, for now; and there was no computer in here. Gathering up their gear, they moved down the hallway into the bay.

Two roll-up garage doors dominated the left wall of the high-ceilinged concrete chamber. Men’s and women’s bathrooms took up the rest of the side they’d entered through. A workbench ate up a large chunk of the righthand wall; some green metal garden furniture and, at the rear of the room, a couple of wood-and-metal picnic tables comprised the break area. The center of the room held two blue pickups with Lipton Construction stenciled in white-outlined red on their sides. The one parked nearest to them had “Ray” in white script letters over the driver’s side door. The back of the pickup was filled with tools and various piles of gear, as well as a steel toolbox mounted on the front end of the bed.

“I’ll take the box,” Sara volunteered, “if you want the cab.”

Catherine shrugged her okay. “Dealer’s choice.”

They took photos of the truck from every angle, fingerprinted the doors and tailgate, and then each went to investigate their own part of the truck. In the cab, Catherine found very little beyond an empty soda cup and a McDonald’s sack with a Big Mac wrapper and an empty french fry container.

“Got it,” Sara said from the back.

Catherine came out of the cab. “Got what?” She moved down the driver’s side of the truck to find Sara pointing the camera at something in the bottom of the truck bed. Following the line of the lens, Catherine saw what “it” was: a nest of black man-made snakes in a plastic bag….

Black electrical ties identical to the one that had squeezed the life from lovely Jenna Patrick.

The floor shook as Howtlen strode in, a piece of paper dangling from his massive paw. “Got your list, for ya!”

But Catherine was on to other things. “Mr. Howtlen, do you recognize this?” She pointed toward the bag.

Joining her alongside the truck, Howtlen looked down into the box, shrugged. “Sure—’lectrical ties. We use ’em all the time. I got a bag of them in back of my truck, too.” He gestured at the other pickup. “Why? Is that important?”

“An electrical tie like these,” Sara said, studying the man, “was the murder weapon.”

“No shit! Really?”

Catherine gave him a hard look. “Really—tied around Miss Patrick’s neck.”

“Hell of a way to go.” He was cringing at the thought, the tiny features almost disappearing into his fleshy face. “Don’t ever think, just ’cause she was a stripper, Jenna wasn’t a sweet kid…’cause she was.”

“Ray is said to have a temper,” Sara said. “And yet you don’t think he was capable of that? In the heat of anger?”

Howtlen shook his head quickly. “I’ve worked for Ray for six years—known him a hell of a lot longer than that…and, yeah, he can lose his top. But this is a sweet guy…and no killer.”

Everybody was “sweet” to Howtlen, it seemed.

Sara didn’t let up: “You do know the Dream Dolls club’s manager was able to get a restraining order against him?”

The big head wagged, side to side, sorrowfully. “Yeah, yeah, I know…Ray caused scenes in there more than once. Sometimes when a guy dates a stripper, at first it’s really great, and then it makes ’em crazy, other guys lookin’ at their lady, naked.”

“How crazy?” Catherine asked.

“Not that crazy, not Ray! He never hurt nobody in his life. Even that time when one of the bouncers hit him…with those brass knuckles? Ray yells, but he’s not violent. Not really.”

“Well if you’re right,” Catherine said, “our work will help clear him.”

Howtlen held up the paper to Catherine. “Then take that list you said you wanted. I never had no idea just how many jackets Ray passed out…I admit I’m a little surprised, ’cause they’re pretty expensive. But, anyway, Jodi found the receipts. Thirty-five.”

Catherine accepted the list. “And how many of the jackets are accounted for on this list?”

“Twenty-seven we’re sure of, who he gave ’em to, and a few maybes. The others…who knows? Maybe Ray can help. He’ll probably remember.”

“May we have copies of the receipts too?”

Howtlen nodded. “I’ll get Jodi to do that for you right away.”

“Thank you. And we’ll need to take the ties from your truck too. Just to be sure.”

“All right.” He turned and lumbered to the door, then stopped and turned, sheepish—the big man was a big kid. “Hey, uh…sorry about before. You girls seem nice. You gotta understand—Ray’s my friend, and he’s a good guy.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Howtlen,” Catherine said. “And we do understand—one of our coworkers was accused of murder, last year.”

“How did that come out?”

Sara said, “He was innocent.”

Catherine gave Howtlen a genuinely friendly smile. “Happy endings are still possible, you know.”

“Yeah,” Howtlen said, shaking his pumpkin head, “but not for that sweet kid, Jenna.”

Ten minutes later they left Lipton Construction with the list, the photocopies of receipts, and two bags of electrical ties from both trucks. Catherine phoned Conroy again and the detective said she was on her way to Jenna Patrick’s apartment. Did they still want to meet her there?

Catherine said yes, then clicked off, and said to Sara, “You don’t mind? You are up for that?”

“We put in this much overtime,” Sara said, at the wheel, with half a smirk, “why not?”

Catherine laughed silently. “Would you rather do your job than sleep?”

“Sure. So would you, Catherine.”

Catherine said nothing; it was true. She loved her job, she loved solving puzzles. She just feared that she might become Grissom or, for that matter, Sara.

Jenna Patrick’s apartment was off Escondido near the UNLV campus. Conroy’s Taurus already sat in front of the building when Sara pulled up and parked across the street. From the outside, the three-story building looked like an early sixties motel, all rust-color brick and crank-open windows. Concrete stairs ran up the right side of the building, and there seemed to be a small parking lot out back.

The three women—one detective and two criminalists—met up at the curb, where Catherine and Sara filled Conroy in on what they’d learned at Lipton Construction. Then the trio paraded single-file up the stairs (Conroy, then Catherine, then Sara) to the third floor, around the back and up the far side of the building to 312. A picture window faced them, curtains drawn over it keeping out any sunlight that might try to sneak through.

Strippers worked the night shift, too.

Conroy knocked on the white wooden door. Nothing. They waited, then Conroy knocked again and said, loudly, firmly, “Police.”

Slowly, the door cracked open, chain latch still in place, and a tired woman peered out. “What?…Awful early…”

Conroy flashed her badge. “Are you Tera Jameson?”

The one visible eye widened enough to take in the badge. “That’s me.”

“Ms. Jameson, could you open the door, please?”

“Yeah. Sure.” A sigh, and the door closed; they heard the chain scratch across the latch, then the door opened again. The voice of their hostess was more alert, now: “What’s this all about?”

The three stepped in, Tera Jameson closing the door behind them. She was a buxom woman, her curly brunette hair flowing down her back but also framing her heart-shaped face. Tallish, maybe five nine, she wore only a 49ers football jersey about five sizes too large for her and a pair of baggy gray cotton shorts.

The living room was tidy if crammed with rent-to-own-type furniture. A low-slung dark coffee table with a glass top and piles of magazines crouched in front of a couch, and an overstuffed brown chair sat against the right wall with a hassock in front of it. In the opposite corner a twenty-five-inch color TV occupied a maple wall unit with a stereo, VCR, DVD, and the attendant software.

“Thank you, Ms. Jameson,” Conroy said, and she gestured to the couch, adding, “Maybe you should sit down. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“What kind of bad news?” The woman’s dark eyes flared, but she took Conroy’s advice, sliding over to the couch and taking a seat. Sara sat down on her far side, not crowding the woman, and Catherine took the overstuffed chair, while Conroy got down on her haunches in front of Tera Jameson, parent to child.

“It’s about your roommate,” Conroy said. “I know you were friends.”

“Best friends,” Tera said. Then the eyes widened again, and she said, “…were?”

Conroy sighed and nodded. “I’m sorry to report that Jenna Patrick died last night.”

Tera’s hand shot to her mouth, her teeth closing on a knuckle as tears took the path over her high cheekbones down her face. “Oh, my God. But…she was in perfect health!”

“I’m afraid she was killed, at work, last night.”

“What do you mean, ‘killed’? An accident of some—”

“Murdered.”

Tera covered her face with her fingers and began to sob.

Conroy eased forward, a hand rising to settle soothingly on the dancer’s shoulder. “Ms. Jameson, I’m very sorry.”

Now a certain anger seemed stirred into the sorrow. “What…what in hell happened to her?”

“Jenna was in one of the private rooms…and she was strangled.”

“I told Ty those lap-dance rooms were dangerous. Goddamnit! I wouldn’t work them…I refused. Goddamnit.”

Catherine asked, “You did work at Dream Dolls, at one time, Ms. Jameson?”

“Yes…I’ve been at Showgirl World for, I don’t know…three months?” Tera pulled a tissue out of a box on the coffee table and dabbed at her eyes. “Did you get him?”

Conroy, still on her haunches, blinked. “Excuse me?”

“That asshole Ray Lipton. It was him, wasn’t it? It must have been.”

Sitting forward, Catherine asked, “Why would you think that? He was her fiancé; he loved her.”

She sneered, her lip damp with tears. “He’s a fucking nutcase. He hated that she danced… and he hated that she lived with me, another dancer…I was a ‘bad influence’! He fucking met her at the club! Jesus.”

Catherine tilted her head. “Mr. Lipton said they were going to be married, soon. Was he lying?”

“Yes. No…I mean, yeah, that was the plan—they were getting married. Jenna was barely even my roommate anymore. To keep Ray happy, she moved out of here about a month ago.”

Sara asked, “Was she quitting dancing for him?”

“Eventually, she planned to. I mean, most of us plan to get out, sooner or later. I have a nursing degree, you know. But she wanted to keep dancing for a couple of years, after they got married, to help build a nest egg. I mean, do you have any idea what those tits of hers cost?”

“Around ten thousand,” Catherine said.

Conroy asked, “Well, was she living here, or not?”

“Her name’s still on the lease, but she’d pretty much moved in with Ray. She still had a few things here, but it was mostly just stuff she hadn’t picked up yet.”

Conroy—squatting must have been getting to her—moved to sit down on the other side of Tera. She asked, “And why do you think Ray would kill her?”

“Probably over the dancing. That she hadn’t quit, that she wanted to keep going with it…. He hated that she danced even more than he hated her living with me. I mean, she liked it here—our hours were similar, it was close to work—but she moved in with him, to…what’s the word? Placate the prick.”

Conroy asked, “You think Ray hates you?”

Tera looked uncomfortable. “I know he does. You know about the restraining order Ty had against him, and what caused it?”

“We know that he tried to choke a customer,” Catherine said.

“Well, that was just one particularly juicy time. It was me pulled his ass off that poor nerdy guy he jumped. More than once, when I was still at the club, he started trouble over our friendship, Jenna and me. He’d see us sitting together, or standing at the bar, laughing, and get all paranoid we were laughing at him. He’d start screaming at me. He probably yelled at me as much as he did Jenna.”

“Why was that?” Conroy asked.

“You know how guys can be—jealous over their girlfriend’s best friend. It’s stupid, such a guy thing. He thought I had some…I don’t know, kinda power over her. That I was this wicked witch trying to keep them apart.”

“Why would he think that?”

Tera pulled her knees up under her, sat that way. Her chin was up. “Because I told her not to take any crap off him. If they were gonna be married, she still had to be her own person, and stand up for her rights, like dancing if she wanted to. I just generally encouraged her to do what she wanted to do.”

“And Ray didn’t like that.”

“Oh, hell no. Ray’s a typical control freak. He thought getting her away from me would make her fall in line with his plans. Get her to live with him, stop dancing, do whatever he said.”

“Ray ever try to get physical with you?”

“No.” She sat up straighter. “He’s a coward, too—he knows I trained in tae kwan do. He figured, lay a hand on me and I’da sent his balls up to live in his throat…and he figured right.”

“Okay,” Conroy said, an uncomfortable tone creeping into her voice. “You mind if we look around?”

“Not at all. Anything that’ll help.” Tera shook her head, the dark locks shimmering. “Her bedroom’s the one on the left, opposite the bathroom. Or it used to be.”

Suddenly Tera’s tough talk dissolved into another round of tears, and that quickly built into racking sobs.

Conroy stayed and held the dancer, tried to comfort her as Catherine and Sara moved to the bedroom. They slipped on latex gloves and entered.

Tera hadn’t been kidding—Jenna had moved out, all right: no bed, no dresser, no furniture of any kind, just a few stray clothes hanging in the closet and a small pile of CDs sitting inside the door, the final artifacts remaining of Jenna Patrick’s life in this tiny apartment.

The two criminalists went back to the living room where Conroy still sat on the couch next to Tera Jameson, holding the woman’s hand—something she doubted Jim Brass would have done, and which would have mystified Grissom. Catherine caught Conroy’s gaze and shook her head—they hadn’t found anything.

Conroy rose, looking down at the young woman with a somber smile. “Ms. Jameson, we’re sorry for your loss.”

Tera, who was drying her eyes with a handkerchief, nodded bravely.

Conroy joined the CSIs at the door. “If we have more questions,” she said to Tera, “we’ll get back to you…. You have my card, if you think of something you consider important.”

“I do, yes—I will…and thank you.”

“Have you ever been back to Dream Dolls,” Catherine asked suddenly, “since you quit?”

Tera shook her head, her long dark hair swinging. “No way. Good riddance to that hellhole.”

Catherine knew the feeling.

“Thanks,” Catherine said, and exchanged polite smiles with the woman.

Soon the trio from LVMPD were standing next to Conroy’s car.

Catherine asked, “You didn’t search Lipton’s place yet?”

“No,” Conroy said, “just picked him up and brought him in. We should get to that.”

“Since he’s in custody,” Sara said, “maybe it could wait till tonight—we’re way past the end of shift, and I’d hate to get the dayshift’s sticky fingers in this.”

Conroy said, “That should work out fine. Meantime, I’ll ask Lipton if he’ll give us the go-ahead, and see if we have to get a search warrant or not.”

“You think he’ll stop cooperating?” Catherine asked.

Conroy arched an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you, if you were about to go down for murder?”

“Yeah, I suppose I would…unless I was innocent.”

“Which you think he is?”

“Well, he’s cooperated with us so far—hasn’t hidden a thing.”

Sara asked, “Tera didn’t paint a very pretty picture of him.”

“She also didn’t paint that violent a picture of him,” Catherine pointed out. “Lipton and Tera hated each other, but it never went past shouting matches, didn’t come to blows.”

The three traded expressions that were made up of equal parts exhaustion and perplexity.

Catherine gave Conroy a wave, and she and Sara headed back to the Tahoe. They had plenty of work to do, though some of it could wait till tonight and, she hoped, the evidence would provide the right answers.

Concentrate on what cannot lie, Grissom liked to say: the evidence.

Hearing footsteps, Catherine turned to find Conroy right behind her. “I’m thinking of stopping at Circus Circus on the way back…you girls interested in some more overtime?”

Catherine looked toward Sara, and they both sighed and shrugged—at this point, what was the difference?

Twenty minutes later they pulled into the parking garage next to Circus Circus; then they were walking through the maze of halls to the second-floor casino where the familiar casino sounds—spinning slots, dealers calling out cards, rolling roulette balls—belied the breakfast hour. This large area was filled with slots, about half of which were in action; the cashier’s cage stood immediately to the right, an Hispanic security guard making small talk with a cute redhead on the other side of the bars.

Conroy approached him and displayed her I.D. and a professional smile. “Who could I talk to about one of your employees?”

The stocky, wispily mustached guard had a radio mike clipped to the epaulet of his left shoulder. He used the mike to check with a Mr. Waller, who would receive the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police contingent in his office, which proved to be on the first floor, past the front desk, and down a deserted corridor behind a door labelled SECURITY.

A tall, thin man in a well-tailored gray suit and black and gray tie extended his hand to Conroy even as the guard showed them in. With a smile just a little too wide and teeth just a little too white, the casino man introduced himself as Jim Waller, and I.D.’s were proffered, hands were shaken, Catherine finding the man’s grip limp and his palm slightly moist.

Waller moved behind the desk and sat in a massive maroon leather chair, a computer whirring behind him, the screensaver showing fish swimming around. He motioned toward the three leather-covered chairs in front of his large darkwood desk.

Waller was a typical casino security man: unfailingly polite and helpful to the police, but wary as hell. “What can I do to help you, officers? Something about an employee, I understand? Is it a criminal matter?”

“Yes, Mr. Waller, it’s criminal,” Conroy said, and the security man’s smile vanished, all those big shiny teeth tucked away in his face. “But the crime doesn’t involve your employee.”

Conroy explained the situation and soon Waller was using a walkie-talkie to summon Marty Fleming.

“Should only be three or four minutes,” Waller said.

It was five, a security guard showing up, escorting a slump-shouldered, medium-sized man in his late forties with sandy hair, a bad complexion and gold-rimmed bifocals. A walking cast peeked out from the man’s left pant leg; Catherine found him a rather pitiful-looking character. Waller rose, came around the desk and approached the man.

“Marty,” he said, speaking to the dealer (though in a facility this size, the odds were scant Waller actually knew the employee), “these police officers need to talk to you.”

The dealer’s face turned anxiously inquisitive as his attention turned from Waller to the women.

“Detective Conroy,” Waller continued, “I’ll be at the front desk, when you’ve finished using my office.”

“Very kind of you,” Conroy said.

Then the security guard and Waller and the latter’s shit-eating grin left them alone.

“Wh-what is this about?” Fleming asked.

Sara got up and vacated the chair next to Conroy, gesturing to Fleming to take it, saying, “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Fleming, that cast doesn’t look very comfortable.”

He sat down, Conroy made the introductions, and explained the purpose of their visit, including the tragic death of Jenna Patrick.

“Damn it, anyway,” Fleming said, shaking his head. He had a perpetual “why me?” demeanor. “I told Ty it was no big deal. Now he goes around telling the police.”

Catherine said, “Mr. Fleming, it is a big thing—Mr. Kapelos did the right thing informing us. If Ray Lipton did attempt to strangle you, it might represent a pattern—a pattern of violence that culminated with him killing that young woman.”

Fleming shook his head. “That’s so sad…she was just the nicest girl. So beautiful. Nice and beautiful.”

Catherine pressed: “Is Ty Kapelos telling us the truth? Did Ray Lipton choke you at Dream Dolls three months ago?”

Slowly, Fleming nodded; he seemed embarrassed. “About that—maybe a little longer ago. He saw me coming out of one of the back-rooms with his girlfriend—I had, uh…you know, a private dance with her. Listen, you’re not gonna talk to my wife, are you?”

Conroy said, “No, Mr. Fleming.”

“I mean, she’ll kill me, and then you’ll be investigating that.”

“Tell us about that night, Mr. Fleming—the night Ray Lipton attacked you.”

He sighed, thought back, pushing his glasses up on his nose—they didn’t stay there long. “Jenna, she gave me a hug, you know, as we were comin’ out of the booth—that’s not something they usually do, I mean, when the dance is over, it’s over. But she was a nice girl, and I used to have a dance from her, I don’t know, a couple times a week.”

Catherine nodded just to keep him going.

“Anyway, she hugged me and I gave her a peck on the cheek and the next thing I know, this guy is all over me, like ugly on a bulldog. Knocks me down, pins me to the floor in that, you know, that narrow hallway? On the floor there, digging his fingers into my throat. His face was all red…mine probably was, too. The girl was screaming and all, and I started to black out. I tell you, I thought I was dead.”

Conroy asked, “Then what?”

He swallowed, pushed his glasses up again. “This brunette, another of the dancers, grabbed him by the hair and pulled him off. Saved me, sort of. She wasn’t a very nice person…kinda cold, the other one, dark-haired. I had a private dance from her, once, too…brrrrr! But she did save me, I guess, from that Lipton guy. Anyway, she doesn’t work there anymore.”

“Tera Jameson, you mean?” Sara asked.

Fleming shrugged. “I didn’t pay any attention to her name—I didn’t like her. Anyway, the girls danced under different names, different nights…. So, then he and her started screaming at each other. He looked like he wanted to punch her, but he kept his distance. I just got up and a couple of the girls helped me back into the dressing room…only time I was ever back there.”

He stopped and smiled as he thought back to that experience.

Conroy prompted him: “Mr. Fleming?”

“Yeah, anyway—I stayed back with the dancers, in their dressing room, till Ty and that Worm DJ guy hustled this Ray out of the club.”

“Did you get the cast from that attack?”

Looking a little sheepish, Fleming said, “No. Got that about a month ago—accident at home. You know. Most accidents happen there.”

Maybe his wife would kill him, Catherine thought.

Conroy asked, “That night at the club, that the last time you had contact with Ray Lipton?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’d remember.”

“Guess you would.” Conroy gave him a smile. “Thank you, Mr. Fleming.”

He sighed, nodded. “You won’t talk to my wife?”

“We won’t talk to your wife.”

Fleming rose and went out, and the trio lingered in Waller’s office briefly, then did the same.

They stopped at the front desk and Conroy thanked Waller, and they made their way out of the gaudy casino, that pioneer in making Sin City family friendly.

Then they drove back to HQ, where they finally ended the night that had long since turned to day.