“Guilty as charged,” Ray confessed, at home in his own blue scrubs. With Hodges’s assistance, he had put the snake down with a fatal injection of barbiturates. His voice held a tinge of regret. It was a shame that the animal had to be destroyed, but it had already nearly killed one person and there was no way they could have examined the snake without risking getting bitten themselves. Nobody at the crime lab was an experienced snake handler.
“Then what exactly are we looking for?” Robbins asked.
“Anything that can tell us where it came from, or who might have handled it recently.” Ray indicated the scratch marks on the snake’s back. “What do you make of these?”
Robbins peered at the scratches beneath the bright overhead lights. Prompt refrigeration had left the snake’s exterior well-preserved. He spoke again into his recorder. “Subject has four shallow lacerations on its dorsal region, ranging in length from one to two inches. The wounds are partially healed over, indicating that they occurred perimortem. No indication of infection or necrosis. The wounds are parallel to each other, and approximately a quarter of an inch apart.” He clicked off the recorder. “Any chance it got these scratches when you captured it?”
“Possible,” Ray answered, “but unlikely. The Animal Control team seemed to know what they were doing, and Sara didn’t report any similar injuries on any of the other snakes.” The rest of The Nile’s serpentine masseuses were still residing in the garage. Ray made a mental note to inspect them for scratches, as well as to examine the tongs Sara had used to transport them. He doubted that he would find anything illuminating, however. Sara would have mentioned if one of the other snakes had been injured in her care.
He bent over the table to inspect the wounds. Even though the snake was well and truly dead, he found himself instinctively avoiding its fangs. The lacerations sliced diagonally across the snake’s colored bands, leaving the torn scales ragged along their edges. “The parallel spacing makes me think either a claw or bite mark. Maybe it got into a fight with another snake?”
Coral snakes actually feed on smaller snakes. Maybe it had tried to make a meal of one of Madame Alexandra’s nonvenomous specimens? According to his research, coral snakes were reclusive by nature. He wondered how one would react to being crowded in with serpents of other species. It was probably already in a bad mood, Ray thought, before it was dropped onto Rita Segura.
“Hard to say,” Robbins said. “I’m a coroner, not a vet, you know. I don’t deal with a lot of snake-on-snake violence.” He sounded a trifle impatient. No doubt he had human victims to attend to. “Still, I’ll take blood and venom samples, and have David do a full histological work-up. Could be good practice for him.”
Sara entered through a pair of swinging double doors, briefly letting some warmer air into the artificially cool environment of the morgue, which was typically kept at a crisp forty-five degrees. She had also changed into scrubs, as much to avoid contaminating the evidence as to protect herself from infection. “Just spoke with Heather Gilroy again,” she reported. “She claims she’s never heard of J. T. Aldridge.”
The two CSIs had already compared notes on their respective interviews. If there was a connection between the jailed drug dealer and the woman who had actually placed the coral snake on Rita Segura, they had yet to find it. Ray had checked the inmate records before departing the penitentiary. J. T. Aldridge had not received any correspondence from Heather, nor visits from anyone matching her description.
Which doesn’t mean they couldn’t have used a go-between, he reminded himself. “So what’s your gut feeling about Heather?”
“Well you’ve actually met Heather. I haven’t. I’m just trying to get a better sense of the players here. Do you like her for this?”
“Honestly, no,” Sara admitted. “I’ve been wrong before, of course. But I don’t believe she sicced the coral snake on Rita on purpose. The fact that she panicked and ran actually argues in her favor. I think she was genuinely shocked when Rita collapsed after that bite.”
“Unless she was simply surprised by how fast Rita reacted to the venom,” Ray speculated. “Coral snake venom often takes several hours to take effect. Heather may have figured she’d be nowhere around when Rita stopped breathing.”
He wondered if maybe Heather had designs on Rita’s wealthy, older husband. Had the masseuse ever met Marshall Segura? Were they already involved? There was nothing to indicate a clandestine affair so far, but Heather wouldn’t be the first ambitious golddigger to want to get a rich man’s wife out of the way. He recalled a case last year when a real estate tycoon’s mistress had tried to dispose of the missus by planting a bomb under the hood of her limo. The careless girlfriend had blown herself up instead.
“Maybe.” Sara sounded dubious. “But if Heather wasn’t involved, that would imply that someone else introduced the coral snake to the vivarium, either by accident or design. Heather admitted that she was no snake expert. Overworked and under-trained, she might not have even noticed if there was an extra snake in the tank.”
“What about the prints on the vivarium?” Ray asked. “Anything suspicious?”
Sara shook her head. “That was a dead end. All I found were Heather’s prints and some belonging to the other masseuses. None that shouldn’t be there.” She watched as Doc Robbins placed the snake in the hanging scale he usually employed to weigh various human organs. “Of course, it’s possible that whoever added our friend here was wearing gloves.”
“And according to Brian Yun, the Cleopatra Room was usually kept unlocked.” Ray had noted the spa’s lax security during his visit there. “It wouldn’t have been too hard for someone else to smuggle a snake in there.”
“So what would the motive be?” Doc Robbins asked. He pulled his surgical mask into place before beginning his dissection of the snake. A gleaming scalpel deftly opened the specimen’s abdomen, exposing its coelomic cavity. Bodily fluids spilled onto the table, which was equipped with a built-in drain. “Random terrorism, like the Tylenol poisonings?”
“Or one of Madame Alexandra’s competitors,” Sara speculated, “trying to sabotage her business?”
Ray saw where she was going. He recalled that Rita Segura had arrived at The Nile without warning, taking Madame Alexandra’s place in the Cleopatra Room.
“Maybe it didn’t matter who got bitten, as long as somebody did.”
Or had the spa owner been the intended target all along?
16
“TURN RIGHT AT next intersection,” a robotic voice instructed. “One mile to destination.”
A GPS unit guided them toward Craig Gonch’s reported address. Catherine had been on the job long enough that she remembered when they’d had only maps, directions, and their own knowledge of the city to find their way around Vegas. Having been born and raised in Sin City, she was pretty good at navigating its streets and back alleys, but she didn’t mind an electronic backup once in a while. The sooner they reached a crime scene or witness, the better chance they had of solving the case. She had once taken a wrong turn on her way to a 409 outside Boulder City. By the time she’d figured out her mistake, a sudden downpour had washed away vital evidence.
They had never caught the killer.
Never again, she thought, recalling the incident. GPS is our friend.
She rode shotgun in Brass’s unmarked Taurus. He had picked her up in front of WaxWorkZ not long after sunset. She felt bad about leaving Greg to finish up searching the TV trailers by himself, but she wanted to check out Craig Gonch for herself, to see if the alleged stalker was really the kind of guy who would anonymously threaten Jill Wooten over the phone. Her field kit rode in the back seat of the sedan. She wanted to get fingerprints from Gonch. Not to mention a voice sample.
“You have arrived at your destination.”
Gonch lived in a low-rent neighborhood only a few blocks away from “G-string Row,” a notorious stretch of strip joints and hot bed motels within sight of the Sahara. The apartment building w
here he reputedly hung his hat was basically a glorified motel as well, renting by the week. Two floors of apartments, their numbered front doors exposed to the elements, faced a trash-strewn parking lot. A yellowed plastic sign out front proudly advertised COLOR TV. Catherine guessed that it had been there since the Kennedy Administration, which was probably the last time anyone had fixed the potholes in the blacktop. The ice machine near the manager’s office was out of order. Broken glass crunched beneath the Taurus’s wheels.
Brass parked the car and switched off the GPS unit. “Looks like Gonch has fallen on hard times since he got bounced from his job at the gym.”
“You think?” Catherine said dryly.
She had been in worse neighborhoods, on a regular basis, but Gonch’s current surroundings left a lot to be desired. Shifty-looking customers loitered in the parking lot, but Catherine didn’t see anyone fitting Gonch’s description. A few of the locals scurried away at the sight of the unfamiliar Taurus, while others glared at the new arrivals with an interest that bordered on threatening. Catherine checked to make sure her sidearm was accessible. She liked to think that she wasn’t nearly as trigger-happy as Jill Wooten, but if someone came at her with a chainsaw, all bets were off.
“I can see why you had trouble locating Gonch,” she commented. “I doubt anyone living here really has a permanent address.”
“Let’s hope he hasn’t relocated again,” Brass said. “Or we’ve visited this scenic location for nothing.”
He put away the GPS and locked it in the glove compartment. This was not the sort of milieu where you wanted to leave an expensive piece of electronics out in the open. They got out of the car and looked around. A chilly wind, blowing across the parking lot from a living, breathing collection of mug shots hanging out under a streetlight, smelled of both marijuana and tobacco. Everything about Brass must have screamed “cop,” since the party quickly dispersed into the night. Catherine wasn’t sad to see them go. Unlike Shock Treatment, they didn’t need an audience.
They took a short flight of steps up to the outdoor walkway connecting the top-level apartments. The paint on the wooden doors was peeling. Cigarette butts and used bubble gum were practically ground into the cement. Every other overhead lightbulb was flickering or needed to be replaced. Going from Roger Park’s $1.9 million luxury trailer to this dump was enough to give Catherine the bends. She was starting to think Greg got the better end of the deal.
Brass stopped in front of the second door from the end. “This is it.”
A tarnished metal “9” hung lopsided on the door. A rubber mat said GO AWAY instead of WELCOME.
Ha-ha, Catherine thought, unamused. Sorry. Can’t oblige.
“Sounds like he’s at home,” Brass observed.
Light seeped through the window curtain and around the edge of the door. A TV was playing inside. She put down her field kit, just in case she needed her hands free, and held back while Brass walked up to the door. He knocked decisively.
Catherine heard someone move on the other side of the thin walls. The TV set turned off abruptly. The curtains parted slightly, then closed again. Whoever was inside seemed in no hurry to answer the door.
Too bad we’re not going to take no for answer.
Brass held his badge up to the peephole in the door. “LVPD. Open up.”
The badge did the trick. After a brief pause, the door swung open, just a crack. A chain lock kept it from opening all the way. An apprehensive female voice escaped the apartment.
“Yes?”
The speaker, a young woman, was obviously not Craig Gonch. Through the narrow gap, Catherine glimpsed a pretty girl with curly brown hair, wearing a man’s football jersey two sizes too big for her. She looked to be in her early twenties, around Jill Wooten’s age, or maybe even younger. The partially closed door hid most of her face. Only one brown eye was visible. It regarded Brass with obvious trepidation.
“LVPD,” he repeated, lowering his badge. “We’re looking for Craig Gonch. Is he here?”
“Why?” she asked uncertainly. She did not seem inclined to unchain the door and ask them in. Her cyclopean gaze darted from Brass to Catherine and back again. “Is something wrong?”
“We just need to ask him some questions,” Brass said. He took hold of the door to keep her from closing it. Leaning forward, he tried to peer past her into the apartment. “He at home?”
“Questions?” the girl echoed. “What about?”
“That’s between us and Mr. Gonch,” Brass said gruffly, losing patience with the girl’s delaying tactics. He stuck his foot in the door, invading her personal space a few more inches. “Would you mind opening the door, Ms. . . . ?”
“Ruvasso,” the girl supplied. “Gabriella Ruvasso.”
“Thanks.” Brass didn’t budge. “Now then, the door?”
She swallowed hard. “Okay.”
He let go of the door so that she could close it enough to give the taut chain a little slack. Catherine half-expected her to slam it shut, but Gabriella just undid the chain as requested. The door finally swung open all the way, revealing the girl in her entirety. The numbered purple jersey hung halfway to her knees. Bare feet with painted toenails shuffled nervously. Long chestnut hair hung over the right side of her face, Veronica Lake–style, although it was unlikely the young woman had ever heard of the long-dead actress and her trademark peekaboo tresses. Gabriella’s slender fingers toyed with the hanging locks, but did not brush them away from her face. A suspicion formed within Catherine’s mind.
Wanna bet she’s hiding something?
“That’s better.” Brass stepped inside before Gabriella could change her mind. Catherine followed him into a cluttered apartment that consisted of a bedroom, a kitchen nook, and a bathroom in the back. The sheets were unmade. Dishes were piled in the sink. Dirty laundry littered the floor. A half-eaten TV dinner rested on a tray on the bed. A cigarette was stubbed out in an ashtray. Smoke rose from the ashes.
The lack of housekeeping was not the first thing Catherine noticed. Instead her gaze was drawn to the horror movie posters tacked up on the walls. Dawn of the Dead. Friday the 13th. One poster in particular caught her attention. It was for The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. The original, not the remake. Who will survive, the movie’s tagline asked luridly, and what will be left of them?
She and Brass exchanged a look.
Just another weird coincidence, or . . . ?
“Anyway,” he pressed Gabriella. “Is Craig around?”
Unless he was hiding in a closet or under the bed, he obviously wasn’t in the small apartment. But perhaps he had just stepped out for a minute?
“No.” She shook her head. “Not right now.”
The sideways motion disturbed her hair. Catherine caught a glimpse of purple. Gabriella saw her looking and hastily rearranged her hair to conceal it.
Catherine recalled the restraining order against Gonch. “Something wrong with your eye?”
“N-no,” she stammered. She backed away, lowering her gaze to avoid meeting Catherine’s eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?” Catherine stepped forward and, before the girl could protest, gently brushed the hair away, exposing a blackened eye, swollen nearly shut. The deep purple coloration of the bruising suggested that the injury was fairly recent. “’Cause it looks to me like somebody has used you for a punching bag.”
Bastard, she thought. No wonder Jill’s scared of him.
“Did Craig do that to you?” Brass asked bluntly.
“No! No!” she insisted, hiding the ugly shiner with her hand. “It was a stupid accident. I . . . fell down the stairs.”
“Onto your eye?”
Catherine didn’t believe it for a second. She had heard lame excuses like this as far back as her stripper days, from countless abused wives, daughters, and girlfriends. It was almost enough to make her wish that Craig Gonch had been wearing the hockey mask when Jill opened fire the other day. From the looks of things, he had it coming.
br /> “Yeah,” Gabriella fibbed. She mustered a transparently bogus smile. “Clumsy, huh?”
“Well, we’re still going to need to talk to Craig,” Brass said. “You know where he is?”
“Um . . .” She stalled, no doubt terrified of upsetting Gonch by squealing on him. “I’m not sure.”
Brass gave her a stern look. “Ms. Ruvasso, I’m losing patience.”
“You won’t tell him I told you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Catherine assured her.
Gabriella wrung her hands together, caught in a bind. Catherine regreted putting her on the spot like this, but protecting Gonch was only going to hurt Gabriella in the long run. They were probably doing her a favor, especially if they ended up putting Gonch away for a while.
“Okay,” the girl relented. She lowered her voice, looking around nervously as though afraid someone might see her talking to the police. “He’s at work.”
“That’s more like it.” Brass pulled out a notebook and pen. “And where would that be?”
The layout room, which was located across the hall from the garage, was an ideal spot to sift through the evidence. The spacious light table provided plenty of room to spread everything out, which was why Nick preferred it to the more modest expanse of his own desk. Crime photos, documenting various ongoing cases, plastered the walls. One wall currently featured a gallery of screen captures from the Shock Treatment footage, while an adjacent wall, which had been staked out by Ray and Sara for their own case, was occupied by enlarged photos of snakes, fangs, and a nasty-looking bite wound.
Greg wandered over to inspect the reptilian mug shots. “Snakes,” he quipped, doing his best Harrison Ford impression. “Why did it have to be snakes?”
“Beats me,” Nick said. Despite his involvement with the Matt Novak case, he was aware of the bizarre snake massage incident Sara and Ray were investigating. It had been hard to miss the influx of live serpents into the lab. Frankly, he didn’t feel too bad about not pulling that case. “At least none of our suspects have scales and fangs.”