Chapter Fourteen: Boots and Plan

"Elaine Robertson," the woman said, extending her hand. The nails were manicured and polished. They both lightly shook with her. "My husband isn't in right now, but I'll do my best to answer your questions. Why don't you come inside?"

Grissom evaluated the house as he entered. If it had seen youthful company recently, the company and the house had yet to become well-acquainted. Mr. and Mrs. Robertson were antique dealers, and had built up a collection of stuffed bears and small, painted wagons that covered every spare inch of the available furniture. It was clutter, but homely clutter, welcoming in an odd way. Grissom sat down on a musty-smelling sofa with a blue-and- white crocheted coverlet hanging over the arm.

"We're here about your son, Trey," Catherine said.

Elaine smiled politely. "My son? I haven't seen Trey in months. He lives in Las Vegas now, you know. I think he said that he's a bouncer at a club."

Archie could have run a full voice analysis on the woman, complete with respiration monitors and stress perception, but Grissom already knew that she was lying. It was the smooth pace of her recitation that bothered him. She was as prepared as Melissa Sharpe, in her way - - but the underneath side was different. Elaine's glassy blue eyes were ripe with distaste. Whatever she was willing to do for her son, she didn't like having to do it.

He pushed the angle. "Well, we suspect that Trey was involved in an attempted murder case. We found his girlfriend's DNA at the crime scene, along with that of a male donor. She gave us your son's name, and we know that he has a permit to carry a concealed weapon. The type is identical to the bullet we found."

Elaine's pasted-on smile was uneasy. "I haven't seen my son, Mr. Grissom. Trey is a good boy, but he's very busy, and he doesn't often get the chance to call."

Catherine had caught something. Grissom could tell the moment her eyes widened. "Mrs. Robertson, do you and your husband normally wear three types of shoes?" Grissom tracked her vision to a space underneath the hall tree. It was a good catch. There was a set of women's shoes, an older man's pair of loafers, and boots. Tight, and black.

"My husband wears those," Elaine said. "The boots."

Catherine was already standing. She knelt by the hall tree and examined them. "These loafers, do they belong to your husband, too?"

"Yes."

"They're a size ten. These boots are eleven-and-half." Catherine put them down with a soft sigh. "Mrs. Robertson, we know that your son would have to be a muscular, well-built young man to work as a bouncer. We can get his shoe size from his apartment. We know he's staying here, and we know that you're protecting him, so why don't you just do us a favor and tell us where he is right now?"

The insecurity in Elaine had vanished. The vague distaste was replaced with the steel Grissom had sometimes seen in Catherine.

"I don't know if you're a mother, Ms. Willows," Elaine said, "but I am, and I'm not giving up my son. Neither is my husband."

"We can get a warrant."

She raised her chin. "Do it. Mike and I have nothing to hide."

"Except your son," Catherine said gently.

"But you won't find anything to trace him," Elaine said, but her voice was unsure again.

Grissom had crossed the room and he raised the pair of boots. "We already have."

**

Mike Robertson was only a few years older than Grissom. Once they got their warrant and sealed off his house, he stood on the front porch and bellowed through the doorway that they weren't going to take his son, did they hear him? His son was the best part of his life and no one was going to take Trey from him, regardless of what he'd done. Elaine joined him in furious chorus, clasping his hand, droning out all other sound. Grissom didn't have the heart or the motivation to shout back that they were both going to be arrested for concealing an attempted murder suspect.

After placing a call to Nick, Sara, and Warrick, telling them not to bother with hotels and friends because they had Trey Robertson in the area, he and Catherine tore the place apart. She ripped through the bedroom and he took the main room, dusting for fingerprints, taking photographs, and scraping traces of dirt off the boots. A splash of Luminol on the soles gave him everything he needed to make the arrest - - Trey Robertson had stepped in blood, and quite recently. A DNA match would seal it in concrete, but that would have to wait.

He held up the Q-tip for her.

"What have you got?"

"Blood. What have you got?"

She raised a bag. "Underwear. Joe Boxer."

"Fantastic. So he's sleeping here."

"I found them stashed in the parents' drawers - - no pun intended - - so he's probably staying in the bedroom. Hey, Grissom?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Catherine?"

"I think I've got a plan." She pushed her heels back and sat down on the bed, ticking points off on her fingers. "If he's sleeping here, and staying gone during the day, he's bound to come back at night. He'll need his stuff, if nothing else."

"Home is the place where, when you go there, they have to take you in," Grissom quoted.

"Exactly. Trey ran home. He'll come back. Get the squad cars hidden away, get the Robertsons out of here, turn on all the lights, and let's see if we can't have our suspect walk right to us."