Killing Game

1

Monday, January 24, 6:30A.M .

LOSCALINA NESTLED IN THEfoothills at the far west end of Summerlin. Packed in north of Far Hills Avenue, just west of Desert Foothills Drive, the gated community was a relatively new addition catering to upper-middle-class dwellers of a…certain age. Such words as senior or elderly were not spoken here; and when these folks ate at a restaurant at 4:30P.M ., the reason was preference, not the savings afforded by an Early Bird Special.

Not as trendy, nor as full of star power, as Lake Las Vegas—its more opulent eastside counterpart—Los Calina (The Hills in less romantic English) catered to older money, clients who wished to remain very private while living in something resembling luxury. Residents were mostly well-to-do retirees still able to live independently. Gardening, garbage collection, and other rudimentary services were provided or overseen by the Los Calina Association, in essence overseen by the residents themselves. For a retirement community, this made other local options—even pleasant facilities—seem like nursing homes without staff, at best, and tenements, at worst.

A slim but shapely woman in her early thirties, Sara Sidle—dark hair dangling out under a black CSI baseball cap, her attractive oval face somber—pulled the black Tahoe into the Los Calina entrance to stop at a guard shack that squatted between theIN andOUT gates. The small, mostly glass structure (about the size of a double-wide phone booth) was the architectural equivalent of the guard who lumbered out of it, sweat rings on his short-sleeve brown shirt beneath meaty arms, despite the chill and the shack’s thrumming window air conditioner.

In the passenger seat next to her, Gil Grissom stared straight ahead; he might have been catatonic, but was merely absorbed in his own thoughts. Pushing fifty, his hair and trim beard touched with gray, the CSI supervisor wore his customary loose-fitting black shirt and slacks, and an identical ballcap to Sara’s. Grissom had never been talkative, but since the Crime Lab’s deputy director, Conrad Ecklie, had unceremoniously broken up the graveyard-shift team, Grissom had become ever more interior.

Still, Sara could tell her boss was keeping up the appearance that everything was fine, as best he could; but she was attuned enough to him to detect differences out around the edges. In fact, Sara figured she knew Grissom better than anyone else in the crime lab, with the possible exception of Catherine Willows (recently appointed swing shift supervisor, but for years, Grissom’s right hand).

Sitting quietly behind Grissom was Greg Sanders, the former DNA lab rat who had just completed his final proficiency, his two-tone hair (dark brown, orangeish blond) looking more controlled these days. Slender, with a narrow, handsome face, Greg fixed his eyes on something outside the vehicle—Sara knew that he had long since learned not to make conversation with Grissom, who on occasion still made life hard for the twenty-something former lab tech.

Nonetheless, Sara felt the young scientist—who had taken the new kid mantle from her (thank Godsomebody finally had!)—had already turned a corner. The glib, flirty kid had receded into a more serious, committed criminalist—didn’t take many nights on the streets for a CSI to develop that kind of detached, no-nonsense attitude.

In the seat behind her, the newest member of theirnew team—Sofia Curtis—also sat in silence. Studying the woman in the rearview mirror, Sara thought the attractive CSI with the long blond hair—today pulled back in a loose ponytail—had already shown herself to be a highly competent investigator.

But they should be getting to know one another better by now, only Sara couldn’t bring herself to let down her guard. Sofia had been the acting day-shift supervisor, seen by many as the much-despised Ecklie’s lap dog. When Curtis had sided with Grissom against the vitriolic Ecklie, the woman had been punished with banishment to the graveyard shift and the recently dressed-down Grissom team.

That should have endeared Curtis to Sara. And, yet, try as she might, Sara couldn’t help but wonder if they might not have a spy in their midst….

Then, shaking her head at her own (probably ridiculous) paranoia, Sara turned toward the square-headed, blunt-featured guard, who awaited like a carhop at her window, which she powered down.

Can I help you? the guard asked, and somehow she managed not to request a milkshake.

Not that the fiftyish guard didn’t look properly official, clipboard at the ready,EVERETT stenciled on the nameplate pinned to one side of his brown uniform shirt, the other bearing a silver badge with a pressed-in logo—HOME SURE SECURITY.

She lifted her laminated ID on its necklace for his inspection. Crime lab.

Oh. His face saddened. You must be here for Mrs. Salfer….

She nodded.

Pity. Nice lady.

Leaning over toward Sara, close enough for her to get a whiff of the scent of his soap, Grissom asked the guard, Have you been here all night, Mr. Everett?

Nope, the guard said, shaking a concrete-block head that seemed to swivel on his shoulders without benefit of a neck. Jack, the night guy, he called in sick—flu. Going around, cold weather maybe.

When did you come in, Mr. Everett?

About five.

Sara checked her watch—six-thirty. Why all these cases seemed to fall toward the end of shift was a bigger mystery than most of the crimes themselves.

Grissom was asking, And who was here overnight?

The guard looked at the shack like the answer might lie inside.

Grissom frowned. Don’t you know, Mr. Everett?

He shook the blocky head. Place was empty when I got here; we been short-handed. Office called me to come in early, so I did—don’t know what the problem was, if any. Could be nobody was out here from eleven last night till I come on.

The ‘office’ called you? Sara asked. What office is that?

He thumped his badge with a forefinger. Home Sure. We have the contract for security here at Los Calina.

Grissom’s smile was faint. How long do you anticipate holding onto that contract?

The guard sighed. Yeah, I know. No one in the guard shack, and here we have a…a damn murder, or something. Hell of a thing.

Isn’t it? Grissom said pleasantly. Thank you, Mr. Everett.

And the CSI supervisor sat back, eyes forward, in a manner that told Sara it was time to move on.

Sara said to the guard, Thank you, sir, and powered up the window.

Giving them a nod, the guard backed away, then returned to his shack; you could almost see the sweat rings growing, despite the cold that was giving everybody the flu.

After a moment, the gate slid open, and Sara eased the SUV through, rolling twenty feet to a stop sign at a T-intersection. Houses went off in each direction, side streets veining to God only knew where.

Which way to Arroyo Court? she asked Grissom.

Sofia leaned forward. Left here, then take the first right; then, when you can, another left.

You’ve been here before? Grissom asked without looking back.

Just a couple months ago, Sofia said. I did a seminar on identity theft for the residents. That was at the main office building. Which is the other way, to the right; but they showed me around while I was here.

You’re good, Sara admitted with a smile.

Sofia said, Call it a gift for street names.

The streets in question wound past lines of stucco houses, both one- and two-story, all looking new and fronted by a lush carpet of green grass—a real rarity in these drought-stricken days.

Sofia’s directions, not surprisingly, turned out to be right on the money, and they were soon parked in front of a large, two-story tile-roof stucco, with a two-car garage attached on the left; and the lawn looked every bit as well-maintained and manicured as the others around it. This struck Sara as decadent, in an oddly mundane way.

Two cars had beat them here: an LVPD squad in front of the Tahoe, and Brass’s familiar Taurus, parked in the wrong direction on the other side of the street. A blue-and-white golf cart—a clear plastic covering protecting it from the rain, and the Home Sure Security logo painted on the front—was nosed in at an angle, not quite pulled into the driveway, and an ambulance in the driveway itself. Right now the EMTs were packing up their gear and loading it back into the ambulance—obviously in no hurry.

Sara hated seeing the defeat on their faces. She’d talked to enough of these men and women, over the years, to know that they were well aware they couldn’t save every one on each call; but that didn’t stop them from trying…or from feeling like shit when death won another one.

Already in strictly-business mode, Grissom said, Big house.

Evidently, Sara said, ‘retired’ doesn’t mean you have to downsize.

Not in Los Calina, Sofia said.

They looked at her.

She smiled and shrugged. "Residents here run the full gamut—from wealthy tovery wealthy."

What if you’re wealthier than that? Greg asked, his eyes full of the impressive home. "Say—stinkingrich?"

You live at Lake Las Vegas, the two women said simultaneously.

They laughed, and Sofia said, Bread and butter, and Sara enjoyed the brief bonding, while Grissom looked at them like they were at least mildly mad.

Recovering her sanity, Sara asked, What do we know about this?

Four-ninteen, Grissom said. Probably a four-twenty, if the EMTs are right…

Four-nineteen meant a dead body, four-twenty a homicide. If you were the victim, Sara thought, you were having a bad day, either way.

Grissom was saying, According to Brass, the EMTs think she may have been strangled.

She? Sofia asked.

Mrs. Grace Salfer, Grissom said without referring to his notebook. Owner of the home.

Sara had a feeling Sofia was wondering why Grissom had waited until they’d got here to share this; but Sara was used to it—Grissom often did that, preferring background information to have the context of the crime scene itself.

As they climbed out of the Tahoe, Captain Jim Brass—his suit a cloudy-sky gray, his face a somber mask—exited the house and started down the driveway. A rather small woman in a Home Sure Security uniform trotted along in his wake like an eager puppy.

From the back of the SUV, Sara yanked her crime-scene kit, then came around to see Brass heading in their direction; when the detective abruptly stopped, the woman tailing him nearly crashed into his back.

Grissom and Sara approached Brass, Sofia just behind them.

What do we know? Grissom asked.

Eyebrows lifted in Brass’s otherwise blank countenance. Just what I told you on the phone—dead body in an upstairs bedroom. Grace Salfer, woman who lives here. Lived.

Nothing else? Grissom said.

Brass almost smiled; almost. Gil—you think I haven’t learned not to disturb your crime scene, after all this time?

Have you?

Sara glimpsed Sofia trying to figure out whether Grissom was kidding or not. Good luck to her on that.

The short female security guard was next to Brass now, like a high-school football player on the sidelines dogging the coach’s heels, hoping to get in the game. Her eyes were green and ever-moving—though Sara couldn’t quite characterize them:nervous or searching? —in a long, thin face that belonged on someone much taller. Straight nose, high cheekbones, very little makeup except for some not-too-red lipstick, blonde hair licking at her shoulders, the guard whose nameplate saidGILLETTE was in her mid-twenties at most; and—though the brown and tan uniform fit her all right—the black webbed belt with a flashlight and pepper spray gave her the appearance of a child playing dress-up.

Did the security service call it in? Sara asked, referring to the woman but addressing Brass.

No, the detective said.

Before he could say anything else, Gillette interrupted: Alarm didn’t trip, for some reason.

Grissom’s head made a mechanical turn toward the guard. And you are?

Mild irritation digging a hole in one cheek, Brass answered for her: Susan Gillette—guard patrolling the neighborhood overnight. She—

"Never got even abuzz on the alarm, Gillette said, as if completing Brass’s sentences was something she’d been doing for years. That sucker should have gone off like a thousand screaming babies, if someone broke into the house."

Brass closed his eyes, and Grissom smiled mildly and said, Colorfully put.

Gillette shrugged. Well, Mrs. Salfer was hard of hearing…not that that’s a rarity around here…but anyway, she had the XLR-5000.

The guard imparted this latter piece of information as if everyone on the planet, or at least in law enforcement, would know exactly what she was referring to.

Did she now? Grissom asked. And what is the XLR-5000?

"The loudest alarm Home Security stocks, for private homes. And trust me, I’ve heardhers go off enough."

Really? Grissom’s eyes tightened and his lips moved, as if he were consuming this knowledge. Then this isn’t the first problem at Mrs. Salfer’s house?

"Well, it’s the firstreal problem. Her alarm was always going off, and…Look, maybe Mrs. Salfer and I didn’t get along so great, but I wouldnever have ignored a call if the alarm went off."

Grissom arched an eyebrow. Didn’t get along?

The guard looked sheepish. "She thought her XLR-5000 going off all the time wasmy fault."

Brass looked sideways at her. The alarm went off ‘all the time’?

When she first moved in it did, Gillette said, nodding vigorously. The techs were out three times, and it’s been fixed. Either that, or she turned it off.

From beside Sara came Sofia’s voice: You’re the only one patrolling, Ms. Gillette? This is a pretty good-size community.

Yes, Gillette said, and no.

They all just looked at her.

I mean yes, it’s a pretty good size…and no, I’m not the only one that patrols at night.

How many of you are there? Sara asked.

Gillette held up three fingers and said redundantly, Three during the day and evening… Two fingers. …two of us, overnight. Bobby Ranson, the other overnight guard, he left at end of shift. I rushed right over here as soon as I heard that something was wrong.

If there was no alarm, Grissom said, who called the police?

They all turned to Brass, including Susan Gillette, who had lost (probably just momentarily) her ability to read the detective’s mind.

Next-door neighbor, Brass said. Carmon Perez—she’s an early riser. Looked out her kitchen window and saw a ladder leaned up against Mrs. Salfer’s house and thought it looked suspicious…too early for repairmen. From her angle, Mrs. Perez couldn’t see that the second-story window was open, but the ladder was enough to make her phone Mrs. Salfer. When there was no answer, Mrs. Perez got anxious and called nine-one-one.

Grissom’s head was to one side. A ladder?

Yeah, Brass said. Looks like someone broke in. There’s—

An aluminum ladder up against the house in the back, Gillette said, her psychic network connection with Brass reestablished. And some footprints nearby. Whoever it was went in through the second-floor window.

Grissom’s frown was barely perceptible. Was the crime scene disturbed?

No! I walked around the house and saw the ladder. As soon as I did, I went back around front.

Tightly, Grissom asked, Weren’t there any officers at the house?

This seemed as much addressed to Brass as the security guard.

Gillette nodded. Yes, and Captain Brass here pulled up, right when I was coming back around the house. I let them all in with my key, and the alarm wasn’t on.

You mean, it wasn’t ringing?

"No. I mean, yes it wasn’t ringing. No, it wasn’t evenset ."

Grissom frowned. And it should’ve been?

Gillette nodded again. All Los Calina residents are strongly advised to set their alarms at night.

Measuring his words, Grissom said, Sofia, you and Greg take the exterior, starting with Security Guard Gillette’s shoes.

"Myshoes? " Gillette blurted.

Grissom continued as if she hadn’t spoken. Sara and I will take the interior.

Gillette, small but feisty, got right in Grissom’s face. What do you want with my shoes?

You walked through my crime scene, Grissom said, his smile small yet somehow enormously reproving, his tone as mild as if he were ordering coffee.

"Uh, with all due respect, what makes thisyour crime scene? We’re all law-enforcement professionals here."

"I’m the lead crime-scene investigator. That makes it my crime scene…but I’m not greedy. I’m going to share it with these other crime-scene investigators. With all due respect,you are a security guard who trampled through my crime scene, and turned her shoes into evidence. Those shoes will be processed, in part as an effort to eliminate you as a suspect."

Suspect?

Grissom’s voice remained soft, calm. This is Greg Sanders—give the nice man your shoes and he’ll give you a set of plastic slippers.

I don’t have to give you my shoes—do I? Her volume was lower now, matching that of the serene Grissom, only with a pitiful edge.

You do. Greg? Would you help Ms. Gillette?

To Sara, the exchange had been like watching one of those old movies of the snake charmer hypnotizing a cobra with a flute.

After a few moments of stunned silence, Gillette followed Greg to the SUV for the shoe exchange.

While Sofia stayed outside to process the entry point, Sara and Grissom followed Brass through the front door. A few seconds were required for Sara’s eyes to adjust to the darkness within, but soon she found herself in a wide foyer with a Mexican tile floor. To her right, a round dark three-legged