THE CSIs GATHERED AROUND THE BODY,
LIKE MOURNERS AT A WAKE.
Novak’s bloodshot eyes stared blankly at the ceiling; a thin film had already formed over the lifeless orbs. Catherine looked at David, curious to hear his conclusions. “David?”
“COD appears to be a single GSW to the chest.” He pointed at the hole in the wall she had noticed earlier. It was right by the door, about six inches to the left of where they had entered the office. “Possibly a through-and-through. Rigor and body temperature puts the time of death at approximately eleven p.m.”
Brass nodded. “Which agrees with the initial reports from the witnesses.”
That makes life easier, Catherine thought. Maybe this would prove to be a straightforward case of death by misadventure. She put herself in the place of the alleged shooter, suddenly finding herself face-to-face with a masked, chainsaw-wielding assailant. Catherine could see why she might have shot the actor in self-defense. Under the circumstances, I might have fired, too.
“Do we have a weapon?”
Brass produced a Smith & Wesson revolver, already sealed inside a plastic evidence bag. Catherine raised an eyebrow. “You doing our job for us now, Jim?”
He shrugged apologetically. “One of the witnesses, a tech guy on the film crew, had already taken possession of the gun before we arrived. He turned it over to the first officer on the scene.”
Catherine frowned. She would have preferred to have collected the weapon herself from its original location, but she couldn’t blame the bystanders for not wanting to leave a loaded weapon lying around. Especially after what they had just witnessed. Maybe it won’t matter, she thought. From the sound of it, there was little question as to who pulled the trigger.
“Anybody else touch the victim?” she asked. “Aside from David, that is?”
“’Fraid so,” Brass answered. “A couple of crew members tried to help Novak before he kicked the bucket. Took off his mask and everything.” He knew this wasn’t what Catherine wanted to hear. “Sorry.”
It was starting to look like half of Las Vegas had handled the evidence before they’d got here.
Original novels in the CSI series:
CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Double Dealer
Sin City
Cold Burn
Body of Evidence
Grave Matters
Binding Ties
Killing Game
Snake Eyes
In Extremis
Nevada Rose
Headhunter
Brass in Pocket
The Killing Jar
Blood Quantum
Dark Sundays
Skin Deep
Shock Treatment
Serial (graphic novel)
CSI: Miami
Florida Getaway
Heat Wave
Cult Following
Riptide
Harm for the Holidays: Misgivings
Harm for the Holidays: Heart Attack
Cut & Run
Right to Die
CSI: NY
Dead of Winter
Blood on the Sun
Deluge
Four Walls
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ISBN 978-1-4391-6080-0
ISBN 978-1-4391-6928-5 (ebook)
1
JILL WOOTEN FELT like she was being watched.
A double-decker bus pulled away from the curb, leaving her on a dirty sidewalk a few blocks north of Fremont, on the outer fringe of the downtown tourist traps. Neon signs, nowhere near as impressive as the ones over on Glitter Gulch, drowned out whatever stars might have been shining in the clear night sky. Instead of big casinos, only souvenir shops, fast-food places, tattoo parlors, and liquor stores lined the street. Light traffic cruised past without stopping, en route to less seedy destinations. A cold winter wind blew litter across the pavement.
She glanced around nervously. She didn’t exactly have the sidewalk to herself, but there weren’t a whole lot of people out and about. Most of the tourists were patronizing the big-name attractions farther west, like Neonopolis and the Fremont Street Experience. After a typically balmy afternoon, the temperature had been dropping precipitously ever since sundown, driving everyone indoors. Jill wished there were more pedestrians around. She shivered, and not just because of the cold.
Maybe this was a bad idea. . . .
A horn honked at the intersection, startling her. She nearly jumped out of her skin. Her heart pounded and she needed a second to recover. Was this what a panic attack felt like?
Knock it off, she scolded herself, dismayed at how jumpy she was. This was no time to let her fears get the better of her; she had to bring her “A” game to this job interview. Her bank account was getting seriously depleted. She really needed this gig.
Worried about her appearance, Jill checked out her reflection in the glass window of a discount electronics store. An attractive redhead in her early twenties gazed back at her; a curvy figure good enough to land the occasional modeling job, but not frequently enough for her pocketbook. Lustrous auburn curls tumbled past her shoulders. She was dressed warmly but stylishly in a tight pink sweater, a leather miniskirt, leggings, and boots. A push-up bra enhanced her natural attributes, but not too much. She wanted to look sexy, not trashy. Like a high-class hostess instead of a hooker. Her purse, a designer knockoff she had picked up at the mall, was slung over her shoulder.
She peeked at her watch. It was nearly ten-forty-five p.m. Kind of late for a job interview, but people in Vegas kept all kinds of hours. Supposedly, this was the only time the club owner, a Milton Boggs, had been available. Jill hoped everything was on the level. According to her friend Debra, this place was legit, but Jill couldn’t help worrying. A pretty girl had to be careful in Sin City; there were all sorts of creeps and predators out there, as Jill knew from experience.
Debra had better know what she was talking about. . . .
Quickening her pace, Jill headed east across Las Vegas Boulevard. Her heels clicked against the pavement. The pedestrian crowd thinned out even more as she headed away from downtown. Despite h
erself, she kept glancing back over her shoulder. The crisp December night seemed to be getting colder by the minute; Vegas’s desert climate made for warm days and freezing nights. She found herself wishing she had brought a jacket, even though that would have slightly spoiled the effect. An ominous warning echoed at the back of her mind:
“You better watch your back, ’cause I’m coming for you. Don’t even think you can get away from me. You’re going to die screaming. . . .”
Footsteps came up behind her. Alarmed, she looked back to see only a tired-looking Hispanic woman carrying a load of groceries. Jill gasped in relief as the other woman passed by. For a second there, she had been worried. No, not just worried, she admitted to herself.
Terrified.
Geezus, she thought. I’m a nervous wreck. Not that anyone could blame her, under the circumstances. She considered turning around and going home. If she managed to catch the next bus, she could be back in her apartment, behind closed doors, in less than an hour. It was awfully tempting. Did she really need the job that much?
Yes, actually.
Mustering her courage, she continued on her way. A couple of drunken college boys staggered out of a strip club on her left, then hailed a cab. Raucous laughter and music escaped the club before its door swung shut again. Jill paused briefly in front of the club. She couldn’t help wondering if they were hiring. She hadn’t stooped that low yet, but if she didn’t land some paying work soon, she might have to review her options. The unfortunate possessor of two left feet, she had been too uncoordinated to make it as a showgirl on the Strip, but she guessed that places like this were a lot less picky. They weren’t exactly about the choreography, after all.
A vivid flash-forward, of her “dancing” in front of a mob of leering leches and pervs, was enough to send her scurrying past the club. I can’t believe I was actually considering that, she thought, appalled at how desperate she’d become. All the more reason to make sure I ace this interview.
She pulled an index card from her purse and double-checked the address. “439 Zeller Avenue” was scribbled on the note in her own handwriting. “Corner of 7th and Zeller.”
A street sign confirmed that she was nearing her destination, which proved to be in the least prosperous neighborhood she had seen yet. Empty store-fronts were boarded up. Rolled-down metal doors protected the few remaining businesses, most of which had closed for the night. Graffiti defaced the walls and windows. Cigarette butts, fast-food wrappers, and the occasional used condom littered the pavement. Jill watched her step as she counted down the numbers over the doors until, finally, she reached 439.
It was hard to miss.
WaxWorkZ was a new nightclub with a spooky wax museum theme. The two-story brick building had been freshly painted black. Life-sized wax figures posed like mannequins in the storefront windows, against a red velvet background. One display depicted Jack the Ripper creeping up on an unsuspecting victim. The other featured a pale, ravenhaired woman bathing in what appeared to be a tub of human blood. Plastic molding in the shape of dripping wax hung from the marquee above the entrance. The name of the club was spelled out in glowing red neon letters upon the marquee. OPENING SOON! proclaimed the banners stretched across the windows. No lights escaped the hidden interior of the club.
Looks like the right place, Jill thought.
Supposedly, the club was looking for hostesses and professional eye candy to adorn their grand opening next weekend. Jill had landed similar gigs in the past; event planners often arranged to have plenty of youthful sex appeal at openings just to create an enticing atmosphere. In theory, she could pick up a nice paycheck for doing nothing more than mingling and looking hot.
I can do that.
She took a second to pull herself together. Peering into the window, she checked her hair and makeup one last time before approaching the entrance. Despite the lighted marquee, the club was still a few nights away from opening. According to Debra, WaxWorkZ was the first part of a revitalization plan intended to turn this whole neighborhood around and draw some tourist dollars away from Fremont Street. Jill guessed that the owners had gotten the property for a song.
She glanced at her watch. 10:50. Her appointment wasn’t due until eleven, so she was still a few minutes early, but she was anxious to get off the chilly, semi-deserted street. She looked up and down the sidewalk one more time, just to make sure she wasn’t being followed, then rang the buzzer. An electronic gong sounded somewhere inside the club.
Long moments passed, but nobody came to the door. Jill paced restlessly, worried about missing her interview. She stared at the number above the door. This was the right address, wasn’t it? Don’t be silly, she told herself. How many wax museum-slashnightclubs could there be, even in Vegas? This had to be the place, so how come nobody was letting her in? Do I have the right day? The right time? What if I was supposed to be here at eleven a.m.?
Had she already blown the interview?
She rang the buzzer again, more insistently, but still found herself stranded on the sidewalk. A tinted glass door offered her no view of what was going on inside. She placed her ear to the door, hoping to hear footsteps drawing near, but heard only the fading echoes of the gong.
10:58.
Oh, no, I’m going to be late, she fretted. Trying the door, she was surprised to find it unlocked. She pushed it open and stuck her head inside. “Hello?”
Not wanting to spend another moment on the lonely sidewalk, and afraid of missing her appointment, she stepped into the foyer. The airconditioned interior was only slightly warmer than the frigid weather outside. Dim blue lighting cast shifting shadows on the glossy black walls. A long red carpet was flanked by rows of waxwork villains behind red velvet ropes. Footlights in the floor lit up the figures, who were posed atop squat black pedestals.
In keeping with the morbid atmosphere, the wax statues were a rogues’ gallery of famous murderers of fact and fiction. Charles Manson, an “X” carved upon his forehead. Hannibal Lecter, complete with muzzle and straitjacket. John Wayne Gacy in full clown makeup. “The Son of Sam,” talking to an evil demonic dog. Freddy Krueger, brandishing his razor claws. Natalie Davis, “the Miniature Killer,” decorating a blood-spattered dollhouse. Vlad the Impaler. Lizzie Borden. Bonnie and Clyde. Janos Skorzeny. Rasputin. The Las Vegas Headhunter, holding up a shrunken head. . . .
Ugh, Jill thought. She shrunk away from the gruesome figures. One particular waxwork, a looming behemoth sporting a hockey mask and a silent chainsaw, reminded her of the gory slasher films her psycho ex-boyfriend used to force her to watch. Craig would have eaten this place up; he had loved horror movies, the bloodier the better. She shook her head in disgust. Give me a good romantic comedy any day.
The door swung shut behind her. She gulped at the sound.
The scary statues were not doing her jangly nerves any favors.
“Mr. Boggs?” She crept forward tentatively. “It’s me, Jill Wooten. I’m here for the interview?”
Heavy black curtains hung before her, at the far end of the foyer. A glimpse of light shone through a crack in the drapes, luring her forward.
“Hello . . . ? Is anyone here?”
The spooky silence was not a good sign. She was tempted to give up and go home, but that meant venturing out into the streets again—and maybe applying for work at the strip club.
Not a chance, she thought.
She headed deeper into the club, through a gauntlet of eerie wax effigies, whose unblinking glass eyes seemed to track her as she made her way apprehensively down the carpet. The shifting blue lights made the sculpted murderers appear to move, at least out of the corner of her eye. A cold draft rustled the fabric of their costumes. Once again, as on the street, she felt predatory eyes upon her. The hair rose up on the back of her neck. Goosebumps sprouted beneath her sweater. The heels of her boots sank into the red carpet, muffling her tread. Her heart was going a mile a minute. She could hear her own breathing.
Or was that someone e
lse?
Why the hell would anyone want to party in a spooky joint like this? Jill had no intention of ever setting foot in WaxWorkZ again, unless she was paid. She nervously fingered her purse. A heavy weight within the purse reassured her . . . somewhat. You can do this, she told herself. They’re just made of wax.
She pushed through the curtain to find a lounge, bar, and dance floor waiting for her on the other side of the drapes. More wax figures, equally menacing, lurked in shadowy nooks and alcoves. A fountain of bubbling wax percolated in the center of the dance floor. Frozen sheets of wax flowed down the walls. Looking around for the source of the light, she spotted a door, slightly ajar, behind the bar area. Polished wax letters read EMPLOYEES ONLY.
Was that where she was supposed to go?
“Hello? Mr. Boggs?”
The unbroken silence unnerved her. Why had nobody come to greet her? Worst-case scenarios flashed across her brain. What if the club had been robbed or broken into? Maybe Mr. Boggs was lying dead or injured in the back room? Suppose his attackers were still there?
Screw it, she thought. No job is worth this.
She started to turn back, only to be halted by a muffled groan from the room ahead.
“Shit,” Jill said. Now what was she supposed to do? The poor guy sounded like he needed help. Maybe he’s having a stroke or a heart attack, she thought. He might need medical attention. . . .
Jill figured she had no choice but to investigate. Her mouth as dry as the desert, she went behind the bar and slipped through the door.
“Mr. Boggs? It’s me, Jill Wooten?”
She discovered what appeared to be an empty office. A laptop computer sat atop a gray metal desk. An enormous flatscreen TV hung upon the wall to her left. A calendar by the desk counted down the days to the club’s gala opening later this week. A replica iron maiden was propped up in one corner. A phone rested in its cradle. Invoices and resumes were piled in an in-box. A half-empty bottle of water suggested the club’s owner hadn’t gone far.
Aside from the looming medieval torture device, the office was reassuringly normal compared to the macabre decor of the public areas. To her relief, the room did not appear to have been ransacked, nor were there any signs of a struggle. Jill relaxed a little. Surely any thieves would have absconded with the laptop and flatscreen TV. She didn’t see any open safes either.