Chapter 9: The Fingerprint

Orange dawn illuminated the city when Horatio approached his hummer. Always vigilant, he subconsciously picked up some subtle cue that he wasn't alone in the early morning. His hand rested on his gun, but he didn't draw it. Then he saw her, leaning against the oversized vehicle.

"Miss Sidle," he said, taking his hand off his gun. "May I ask what you're doing here?"

She pushed away from the car stepped toward him. "You're going to the Golden Triangle, aren't you?"

"Yes I am."

"I'm going with you."

He looked at the ground and shifted his feet before looking back up at her and answering. "That's not going to happen, Ma'am."

She smiled at him, somewhat defiantly. "You're not taking a cop, are you? That would be like carrying around a target. Are you taking one of your CSIs?"

"It's a very dangerous neighborhood," he answered evasively.

"I know. You don't want one of your team to get hurt. Well, I'm not on your team."

"Which is precisely why you can't accompany me. I can't be responsible for your safety."

"I can take care of myself. I'm volunteering to go."

He didn't know why she was insisting; she understood the risks. Perhaps this was the lapse in judgment Calleigh worried about. She might have wanted to prove to herself that she could face a dangerous situation again. That could lead her to take unnecessary risks. Or it could be exactly what she needed to work through whatever issues her recent ordeal left her with.

"If you don't take me with you, I'll just follow you," she threatened.

"You're very stubborn," he noted neutrally.

She nodded. "Yeah."

He unlocked the car and they both got in. He handed her a gun. "Don't draw this unless you have to, let me do the talking, and if I tell you to run, run."

"Got it."


"This is the third time you've talked to me, and you still have nothing," Arsenio Petersen complained.

"That's not strictly true. We've determined the victim in your house called your phone number more than once. You told us you didn't recognize him. You lied to us, Mr. Petersen," Calleigh said.

"Even if my client spoke to this man over the phone, you can't prove he'd ever met him," Petersen's lawyer pointed out.

"I talk to a lot of people over the phone for business reasons. I don't even know which one of those he might have been," Petersen added.

"You don't really expect us to believe that, do you? If you know anything you're not telling us, then you're going to be charged with obstructing justice."

He hesitated, then said, "Can I consult with my lawyer in private for a moment?"

"Sure."

Calleigh went to the observation room, where Eric had been watching.

"Even if he didn't know anything about the shooting, Arsenio Petersen is definitely hiding something," he noted.

"But we'll get him."

"Maybe Petersen hired John Doe to do a job for him, and something went wrong."

"If that were true, why are all of the calls from John Doe to him, instead of the other way around?"

"Uh oh. That doesn't look good." Eric's attention returned to the interrogation room. "The lawyer is laughing."

Calleigh entered a minute later. "Have you decided to cooperate yet, Mr. Petersen?"

The lawyer answered. "My client is invoking his Fifth Amendment right not to speak."

Calleigh raised an eyebrow. "You mean telling us who John Doe is would implicate you, personally, in a crime?"

"If that were true," Petersen said, "it would be your job to figure out what that crime was. I can't be legally compelled to tell you."

"If you cooperate, you could make a deal with the DA. Otherwise, we'll be charging you with obstruction, as well as whatever crime you're trying to hide from us."

"If you figure out what that is, give us a call. My client and I will be leaving now," the lawyer said.


Natalia watched the computer screen over Ryan's shoulder. He'd found an unopened sugar packet, just like he'd expected, with a couple of fingerprints that they were running through AFIS.

"Amazing. We got a hit."

Natalia read, "Matthew Pedro: robbery, assault, breaking and entering."

"It's nice to finally have a name to work with."


Ryan and two uniformed officers approached Pedro's apartment. Parked out front was a black car, dented and rusted in several places. It matched the description of the car that dropped off John Doe and Jane Doe at the beach house.

He knocked. A minute later, a man with a shaved head and thick black eyebrows opened the door. He looked at the cops. "What is it this time?"

"Matthew Pedro, I'm Ryan Wolfe, Miami-Dade crime lab. We have a warrant to search your apartment."

"What for?"

"We have evidence connecting you to a kidnapping and attempted murder."

"Attempted murder? Hell no. I didn't try to kill that chick."

That raised Ryan's eyebrows. "But you're not denying you kidnapped her?"

Pedro fearfully glanced back into his apartment. Ryan followed his gaze to a small blue purse on the table. He pushed by the suspect for a closer look.

"You don't have a woman over, do you?" he asked.

Pedro didn't say anything.

Ryan photographed the purse, then opened it and slipped out a wallet. "I found Jane Doe's driver's license. This purse belongs to a woman who's fighting for her life in the hospital. We have enough right here to arrest you for robbery, if nothing else."

"Then arrest me," the man challenged.

An officer pulled out handcuffs. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law..."

Ryan pulled out his cellphone. "Hey Natalia. I found an identity for our Jane Doe. Jozebeth De La Garza. She lives at 1104 Northwest Leon Street."

"I'll check it out."


Sara couldn't quite articulate, even in her own mind, why she wanted to go with Horatio to the most dangerous part of Miami.

I have a problem with authority. I choose men who are emotionally unavailable. I'm self-destructive. All of the above.

She didn't smile at the memory.

Her eyes flashed toward Horatio. He wasn't the type she was usually attracted to, but she found herself drawn to him. Something about him made her feel safe. In fact, she felt safer when she was with him than she had in a very long time. At the same time, he seemed almost dangerous: mysterious, protective, aggressively competent. He kept his feelings to himself, stoic. He reminded her of Grissom. And yet he was very different. There was an easy warmth to Horatio, a wordless connection with others that Sara's old boss had lacked. And so did she, honestly.

Her thoughts turned to Vegas, to Grissom. She hadn't called him since before the hospital. For one thing, she wasn't sure she could lie to him if he asked what happened, and she didn't want him to worry. But also, she wanted to focus on the case. When she'd left Vegas, she was sick of her job, and certain that she would never want to be a CSI again. Yet here she was, in a city far away from her old life, pursuing the same work. And, truthfully, enjoying it.

That was why. It felt like a betrayal. Not a personal betrayal, a professional one. Grissom thought she'd left because she had to get away from the work. If he knew what she was doing then he would wonder if she left for some other reason. So she decided not to call him until this whole thing was over. She'd have more explaining to do, but that would give her more time to think of an explanation.

"This is it," Horatio announced as they parked in front of an unmarked building.

The streets, sidewalks, and buildings in this part of Miami were crumbling, and stained with dirt, rust, and less pleasant things. Garbage clung to the gutters, including used needles, broken bottles, cigarette butts. The banana-yellow morning light did little to brighten the scene. A siren could be heard in the distance.

Horatio and Sara exited the vehicle, both walking with a calm determination. He pushed open the grime-smeared door.

The man at the front desk looked up at them. He was small, pale, wiry, and wary. He didn't speak.

"Hello," Horatio said. "We're looking for Cinder."

The man scoffed.

"What's so funny?" Sara asked.

"Cinder's only here on the weekends, and then only in the p.m."

"Where can we find Cinder now?"

The small man sneered. "Who's asking?"

Horatio slid a 20 bill across the table. "We are."

He snatched the money, smiling scornfully. "You might want to check at Dragon Rojo, sometimes she's there. It's a bar about two miles down the street." He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of south.

"Thank you. We are much obliged," Horatio said. He and Sara retreated to the door.

As they walked out, Sara glanced at the upper story windows. "A photo album on the desk, drug paraphernalia in the trash cans, curtains on the windows."

"Yes. This is a brothel, isn't it."

"More like a hotel, except people come here for drugs or sex instead of sleep. Or to hide out from cops. We could come back with a warrant, but that would blow our cover pretty fast. I don't know about you, but I felt like that guy was actually considering just shooting us."

"And he might still be thinking about it. Let's take his suggestion and check at the Red Dragon."


Jozebeth's landlord unlocked her apartment. "I figured she was staying with a boyfriend or something," he explained. "That's kind of normal for my single tenants her age. Look around all you want."

"Thanks." Natalia pulled on gloves and looked around. The apartment was small: a table, a chair, and about a quarter of a kitchen taking up a corner of the living room. The bathroom was about twice the size of the average closet, with a shower, a sink, and a toilet so close they were nearly touching. The twin-size bed took up about half the bedroom. The other half was a chest of drawers with a small tv and a laptop computer on top.

In spite of the cramped and cluttered condition, the apartment was cheerful and colorful. There were photos on the table and the bookshelf (which was squeezed between the head of the bed and the wall), magazines on top of the microwave, and a vase of wilting flowers on the table.

There was a phone perched on the windowsill in the kitchen with a blinking number 5 on the message display. Natalia pressed the play button.

"Message One: 'Jozy...it's ten o'clock. You're never late for work. Where are you?'" This was a man's voice, gruff but friendly.

"Message Two: 'Seriously, Jozy. Did you have a late night last night? Just call so I can stop worrying.'" It was the same voice.

"Message Three: 'Jozebeth...Just calling to say hi. Your dad and I are going camping next weekend. Would you like to come? Call me back. Love you.'" A woman's voice. Natalia guessed it was her mother.

"Message Four: 'Hi...um...this is Scott. Um...you might not remember me, but you gave me your number and I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner or lunch or something on Friday. My number's 555-0441, if you want to call me back. Um...bye.'" This voice sounded like a teenage boy.

"Message Five: 'Jozy, this is Ted. This is the second day in a row you didn't come to work. If you don't come in tomorrow or don't call me, I'm going to have to fire you. I'm sorry.'" The same voice from the first two messages.

Natalia looked around again and sighed. There was nothing here that explained why Jozebeth De La Garza was drugged and abducted, nothing to suggest why anyone would want her dead.


Eric interviewed Matthew Pedro while Ryan was still processing his apartment.

"My client," said Pedro's public defense attorney, "has agreed to cooperate fully in exchange for a plea bargain."

"Good. You can start by telling us why you kidnapped Jozebeth De La Garza."

"This guy paid me to grab her."

"Do you know the man's name?"

Pedro laughed. "We don't use names. He just gave me a wad of cash and a bottle of something and told me to put it in this girl's coffee. He told me to grab her and meet up with him. So I did, and he had me drop them off at an address by the beach. So I did. He gave me the rest of the money, and let me keep the girl's purse and everything in it. I didn't want to know what he planned on doing with her."

"And he told you to grab this girl specifically?" he asked.

"Yeah. He told me exactly what she looked like, and where and when to find her."

"Did he tell you why he wasn't grabbing her himself?"

"No. And why would I ask? His money was good. That's all I know. I swear."

"What did the man look like?"

"Uh, average. Thirties, early forties, maybe. Brown hair. Kind of chubby."

"Is this the man?" Eric showed him the sketch of John Doe.

"Yeah. That's him."

"What did you do with the money he gave you?"

"It's still in my apartment. I haven't even counted it yet."


Calleigh, sitting between two attentive prison guards, smiled at George Merlo. "I just wanted to ask you a few questions, Mr. Merlo."

"Ask all the questions you want. You're the best view I've had in a long time."

"Why thank you," she said. Merlo wasn't exactly what she'd been expecting. He less shabby and more articulate than the average street thug. "For starters, I'd like to know where you bought the gun you used in the robbery."

"I bought it on the black market. I don't remember the details. But I'd be happy to make some up, if it will keep you around here longer."

"Okay, let's do that. What did the person you bought the gun from look like?"

"He was Black, or maybe Cuban. It was a very dark alley."

"You know, I'm not sure you bought that gun at all. A funny thing about selling guns is that, usually, they all end up in different hands, but the gun you used was stolen along with four others, three of which were just recovered from a dead man's hotel room."

Merlo's expression became more guarded. "Really? Who was the dead man?"

"I'm sorry, but that's not something I can discuss. But, if it's not too much trouble, could you take a look at a sketch for me?" She pulled out the picture of John Doe.

Merlo flinched. His lips parted in a frown.

"You do recognize him."

"Will's dead?"

"I'm afraid so. Do you know what he might have been doing at Arsenio Petersen's house?"

He visibly startled. "Arsenio? No. That makes no sense."

"Or what he wanted with Jozebeth De La Garza?"

Merlo stared at her. "I'm not saying another syllable without a lawyer."

"That is your right. But, Mr. Merlo, you were in prison during the time of the crimes. That's about as good an alibi as you can get."

"Lawyer," he repeated.


The Dragon Rojo bar was in no way out of place in the neighborhood. The few lights that worked glowed fuzzily through a mist of tobacco smoke. There were people seated along the bar, and several more around pool tables. There was music playing. The song sounded Spanish, but it was hard to tell over the noise.

"And I thought Vegas was the Wild West," Sara remarked.

"This," Horatio said with his characteristic over-dramatic cadence, "is Miami."

They entered, instinctively staying close together, and worked their way to the bar.

The bartender was a large, muscular man. Every inch of visible skin displayed a tattoo, from his arms to his neck to most of his face. And he seemed to also have a black eye. His eyes flickered over their clothes, their faces, and their stances with burning hostility. "What do you want?" he demanded.

It occurred to Sara that Catherine could handle this situation easily by leaning forward, showing some cleavage, and dropping some stripper slang to convince the bartender she was a prostitute looking for a friend. Unfortunately, acting wasn't in Sara's skill set.

"We're looking for Cinder," she said, trying to make it sound like someone she knew.

"She's not here," the man informed them icily.

Horatio glanced down, then back up quickly, and spoke carefully. "Do you know where we can find her?"

"Not. Here. Now get out before something bad happens to you."

People were beginning to notice them. The conversation was sinking to frantic whispers.

"Sir," Horatio's voice had a threatening edge, "we're not here to make trouble. You really should cooperate with us."

Sara glanced at the onlookers. The whispers were making her nervous. Mixed in with the conversation was one word repeated over and over: Caine.

The bartender put his hands on the table and leaned forward. "No one tells me what to do in my place. Now, tell me why you're really here, or..."

Horatio's hand moved inconspicuously slowly toward his gun. "Sara," he said in a low growl, "run!"

She turned toward the exit. She heard two shots and glass breaking. Simultaneously, the room was plunged into near darkness. Some people screamed. She pushed her way toward the exit with the crowd, and a minute later spilled out into the Miami sunlight. She started toward the hummer, but turned back. She couldn't bring herself to leave Horatio. Figuring there had to be a back exit, she turned down the alley beside the bar, which emptied into a vacant lot.

Suddenly, she heard a voice behind her. "Turn around."

She turned, and saw two young men, both holding guns in her face.

Guns look very different when seen from the wrong side. They have a way of focusing attention while the rest of the world shrinks away. She was frozen, paralyzed. Even her thoughts froze.

"Where is Horatio Caine?" the man asked.

She moved her lips, but didn't speak.

"I know you were with him. Where did he go?"

"I don't know," she managed to say.

"You're lying."

"Gentlemen, I'm right here. You can let her go." Horatio stepped out of the shadows of the alley.

Both men swung their guns toward him. "Caine!" one of them spat.

Without thinking, Sara drew her gun in a flash of movement and shoved it against the back of the closest assailant's neck. Horatio trained his weapon on the other.

"Gentlemen," he said in a voice that managed to be both soothing and threatening, "you should really consider the possibility that you have us mistaken for someone else."

"I know who you are," the man said.

Sara pressed her gun harder against his skin. "You won't know anything in a minute if you don't put down your gun."

He lowered it slowly. "Okay. Okay."

"You too, friend," Horatio said to the man his gun was pointed at. "Put it down and walk away." He circled around until he was behind him, next to Sara. "Walk away." He took a few steps back, and Sara followed his lead. "Now."

The two men broke into a run for the alley.

"There're more of them," Sara started to say.

"Yes. This way."

They retreated through the vacant lot to a tall wooden fence. Horatio holstered his weapon. "Ladies first," he said as he interlaced his fingers to boost Sara up.

She pulled herself up, then gave Horatio a hand before jumping down into the ground below. Horatio dropped down beside her. They were in a narrow opening where a gutter ran between two fences. It was concealed from the road by a curtain of kudzu growing up a telephone pole.

Sara sank to the ground and rested her head against the fence. Her heart was pounding.

Horatio stooped down next to her. "Are you alright, sweetheart?" he asked.

It was only then that she realized she'd been wincing and rubbing her arm. "I broke my arm last year. It still hurts sometimes. I just jolted it a little."

He felt up and down her forearm. "Okay. It doesn't feel broken. You're okay."

He kept rubbing her arm, which stopped hurting. Sara's heart kept pounding, but now it wasn't from fear. She recalled the day she'd cut her hand after an explosion in the lab, when Gil had cradled her hand in his and called her "Honey". The memory was pushed out by the more immediate reality of Horatio's presence. "Are you okay?" she asked, trying to break the tension.

"Yes I am." He slid his fingers from her arm to her hand and helped her up. "I suggest, we find some place to lay low for the time being."


Back at the lab, Natalia sat in front of a computer, running a search for Jozebeth De La Garza in police reports and court records. She wondered if John Doe had been an abusive ex-boyfriend, which would explain why he hired someone else, someone she wouldn't recognize, to grab her from the coffee shop.

But she was surprised when the name popped up as a witness in an open case.

She read through the file quickly.

"Oh my God."


Ryan entered the serial numbers of the cash recovered from Matthew Pedro's apartment, the money John Doe had paid for kidnapping Jozebeth.

His eyebrows crinkled. Three 100 bills were flagged as stolen.

He entered the case number, and began reading the file of an open robbery.

His eyes widened when they came across Jozebeth De La Garza's name.

"Oh my God."


Calleigh smiled across the table. "Hello again, Mr. Merlo. I hear you're ready to cooperate."

"Yes. I get full immunity if I tell you everything I know."

"That's sounds like a really good deal."

"You have no idea."

"Let's start with what you know about Will's murder."

"Well," he said slowly, "I don't know for sure, but I suspect Will Sommer was killed because he broke the rules..."