Disclaimer: CSI belongs to someone else. Such a shame, really. Warrick… hot DAMN! -fans herself with newspaper-
Grissom shone his torch around. The desert air was cool, but there were no stars out tonight. They were all hidden from sight by the giant neon signs that flashed and glittered across the whole city. Grissom spared the sky only a passing glance, though - he was more concerned with the trailers and the cars parked behind the hotel.
"Right," Brass sighed, "So what are we looking for again?"
"Tire treads, signs of struggle." Grissom swept his torch over the ground again. "Anything that could answer our questions." He fought the urge to sigh.
Brass pulled a face. "You don't really believe that Ms Evelyn was kidnapped, do you?" The detective shook his head. "Puh-lease. If this isn't a publicity stunt, this is a girl who actually wants to eat something more than three peas for lunch."
"Three peas?"
Brass shrugged. "Hey, what else do you expect supermodels to eat?"
Grissom looked over at the detective and raised an eyebrow, but didn't say anything.
"Anyway," Brass continued, "The girls' agent says we can check Tina's trailer if we want. She shared it with two other girls, though, so it could be a little messy in there."
"How messy can teenage girls be?" Grissom squinted.
Brass shook his head. "Huh. You don't wanna know. And technically, Gil, these models aren't teenagers." He knocked on one of the trailer doors. "Las Vegas Police! Anyone in there?" After a moment, Brass opened the door and stepped inside. Grissom followed.
In one corner of the trailer, there were three heavy metal lockers, similar to the kind used in high-schools everywhere. A large section of the trailer had been curtained off as a makeshift changing area, and a small door led to an airplane-sized bathroom. Racks of clothing lined the walls. Three dressing tables dominated the trailer, decorated with feather-boas, stickers, and piles and piles of makeup.
"Well, this isn't too bad." Brass said, hands on his hips, surveying the trailer.
"Where do they sleep?" Grissom swung his torch around. "I don't see any beds."
Brass pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket and read from it. "Ah, let's see. Well, Caesar's is letting them stay in the hotel rooms. High-class suites. Individual rooms." He looked up at Gil and grinned. "Apparently, they only come down here to get ready for their photo -shoots and for the big event."
"When is the big event?" Grissom asked, opening one of the lockers. A big sticker on the locker door announced in curly pink script that the locker belonged to 'Jacqueline'. Three worn teddy-bears stared back at him, as well as a large collection of Beanie Babies. The inside of the locker had been wallpapered bright pink, and someone had drawn hearts all over the paper in red pen. Grissom winced and slowly shut the locker door.
Brass smiled. "If you don't find Tina in three days - that's when the fashion show is on, by the way - Mr Vincent is gonna sue."
"Sue who?"
Brass shrugged. "Everyone, I guess. He's got the power, and the money. Anyway, the sheriff doesn't want that to happen. Hence, he's bringing in the Feds."
The second locker had a padlock on it, one that required a key. We'll have to come back to check that one later, Grissom thought, as he reached for the third. This one, according to the plain white label, was Tina's. The missing girl's locker. Grissom opened it slowly.
"Well," Brass blinked, "That's not exactly what I'd expect in a supermodel's locker."
Grissom looked over the book titles. "'Misery', 'Insomnia' and 'Night Shift'."
"Stephen King?" Brass fought with a smile. "A little dark for a supermodel, don't you think?"
"Peter Benchley, Oscar Wilde, Roald Dahl…"
"Still creeping me out."
"Othello, Hamlet, Midsummer Night's Eve…"
"Okay," Brass pulled a wry face, "I'm really starting to worry about this girl's sanity now."
Grissom looked around the locker, past the substantial pile of books. There didn't seem to be much, aside from a few containers of makeup and bags of sanitary items. Nothing out of the ordinary. And nothing seemed to be missing.
"Oh!" A girl's startled squeal made both CSI and detective turn. One of the girls stood in the doorway. "I'm sorry," she stammered, "I didn't know someone was in here."
"It's okay," Brass said reassuringly, "I'm Detective Brass, and this is Gil Grissom of the Crime Lab."
The girl's eyes widened. "Oh, so you must be friends with those two in the main building." She smiled, but was still nervous. "They didn't tell me what happened… where's Tina?"
"We don't know yet," Grissom said. "But we're trying to find out." He pointed to the locker with the padlock on it. "Is this yours?"
"Oh, no." The girl shook her head. "That's Dana's. She likes her privacy." The girl frowned prettily. "She said that she didn't like how the other girls would come in and steal her things. She used to call them…" The girl giggled behind her hand and grinned impishly, "'Stuck-up bitches'." The girl looked scandalised, but also childishly pleased with herself.
"I'm guessing you're Jacqueline." Grissom said.
The girl nodded. "But everyone calls me Jackie." She bit her lip. "Umm, do you mind? I… I want to get changed." She shivered. "I'm freezing, and the girl back there said I should get some real clothes on." Brass raised an eyebrow, then looked back at Grissom. The CSI blinked at the supermodel. Brass had to wave slightly to get Grissom's attention.
"Go ahead," Brass smiled at Jackie. "We'll be waiting outside."
Grissom had no choice but to follow. Once he had shut the door, Brass shook his head.
"Is it just me, or did that girl seem like a few fries short of a Happy Meal?"
Grissom frowned. "An unhappy childhood can contribute to childish behaviour as an individual gets older. It could be the manifestations of mental plea for everything to be right with the world, or an individual's way of coping with severe trauma. Just because she collects stuffed animals and acts like a little girl doesn't mean that her mind is incapable of comprehending more complex issues; she just remains in the past. She probably finds being pushed to the limit for the sake of beauty stressful, and this could just be her way of dealing with it."
Both men looked out over the dark backlot of the hotel in silence for moment.
"Or she could be faking it," Brass commented wryly.
"You know, I think I'd like to have a look in Mr Vincent's trailer," Grissom said, changing the subject.
"Why?" Brass asked.
Grissom shrugged. "Just curious, I guess."
"Curiosity got the cat sued," Brass said dryly, "But I guess there's no harm in asking. Anything in particular you're looking for?"
"I don't know." Grissom shrugged again, "But it wouldn't hurt to look, right?"
"Right," Brass said, as both men went over to Marcus Vincent's trailer.
Brass knocked announced himself, and waited. Nothing. "I guess he's not in." Brass looked both ways, then back at Grissom. "Think he'll sue us if you go in and take a quick look?"
"Invasion of privacy, Jim."
Brass waved a dismissive hand. "Eh, he's not here. 'Sides, we're investigating a 'kidnapping', remember? So we have every right to search the premises, just in case Tina Evelyn is being hidden." Brass shrugged, then added, "Or something." He opened the door and bowed, "After you, Doctor."
Grissom shook his head in mock-despair, but went into the trailer.
"Oh, you gotta be kidding." Brass said, stepping in after Grissom. "Somehow, I think a supermodel's agent would have a little bit more… style."
"Maybe he prefers to save his money." Grissom looked around the stark trailer. The only furniture was two chairs, a glass coffee table, and a shelf with a few books and a handful of knick-knacks. A worn laptop rested on the coffee table, connected to a power outlet by a thick ugly wire. Something caught Grissom eye, and he went over to the table. He ran his finger over the glass, then examined the dust on his fingertip.
"What is it?"
Grissom's mouth tightened. "I think it would be a good idea to have a discussion with Mr Vincent."
Brass raised an eyebrow. "You think he had something to do with Tina's disappearance?"
"Well," Grissom said stoically as he opened his kit, "He has something to do with this cocaine."
Brass sighed. "Ah, the responsible father-figure's secret sin." He watched as Grissom took samples. "How many of his girls you think knew about it?"
"Why don't you go find out?" Grissom said. Just then, his pager went off. It was a message from Sara. 'Blood on catwalk - agent ducked and covered'. Grissom looked up at Brass. "Better yet," the CSI added, "Why don't you round up the models and the manager. I've got a few questions for them."
Brass nodded, and grinned. "Are you planning to take them back to the station to… interrogate them?"
Grissom shrugged. "It may come to that." His mouth was set in a grim line. Brass's humour vanished.
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Warrick and Valerie watched silently as the body of Julia Westwood was carted away in a black plastic bag. The room was cold and empty, and smelt of death.
"She had her whole life in front of her," Warrick said softly.
"That bastard's gonna pay."
Warrick looked down at the red-head. "Are you alright?"
Valerie shrugged, then sighed. "I don't know. Vegas is… well…" She sighed again. "The cases are different, but the crimes are the same. Theft, rape, murder…" She smiled at Warrick. "I'll deal. I always do."
"Right," Warrick nodded. "So. Where should we start?"
Valerie looked around the room, her face blank. "Maybe entrances and exits. Any signs of forced entry, anything out of the ordinary?"
"Forced exits are out," Warrick said. "The police had to batter their way in. Neighbour reported screams, but no-one saw anyone come in or out."
Valerie looked out the window into the immaculate garden outside. "No hedges, not many trees. No place to hide." She frowned. "Someone she knew? Someone everyone knew and no-one suspected?" She shook her head, then froze. "Hey, Warrick? Check this out." In the white carpet was a large smudge of dirt.
"Can't be the vic's," Warrick frowned, "She wasn't wearing shoes, and her feet were clean."
"It's a start." Val lifted the camera to her eye and took a few photos.
Warrick looked around the apartment. "The killer probably tracked dirt inside."
"I don't think this is a footprint," Val said carefully, examining the mark, "It looks more like… a handprint?"
Warrick frowned, "Who goes digging in the dirt with their hands?" He looked around the room. "I'm going to go check the other rooms, see if the killer left anything in there. And maybe I'll find a window or something." He left, taking his kit with him.
Valerie looked around the empty room, and sighed. A girl was dead, raped, and all they had to work with was a dirty handprint in carpet. No prints from there, obviously. With another sigh, Valerie set aside her camera and opened up her kit. The killer might have left something of his on the rug when he was raping Julia. If there was DNA, Valerie swore she'd find it.
She scraped at a damp spot on the carpet with a cotton swab, then sat back. Julia Westwood's blood stained the cream-coloured carpet in spurts where the wire had sliced her throat. The killer's creative, I'll give him that. Valerie wiped her face with the back of her arm. It's not every day you come up with the idea to strangle someone with guitar strings. But it couldn't have been the weapon of choice. It would take a while to undo every single guitar string. Val's eyes widened, then narrowed. He was in here for a while. He had time to spare.
Warrick knelt down by the bin in the bathroom, and pulled the used condom out with a pair of tweezers. He bagged it, quickly, unable to hide the disgust on his face. It's like this guy wants to get caught, he thought darkly. He leaves his DNA at the scene in plain sight? Something's up. Warrick looked around the pristine white bathroom, then opened up the can of fingerprint powder. No-one takes bloody guitar strings with them. They have to be here somewhere. Warrick started dusting the toilet.
Valerie went to the windows with her own container of fingerprint powder. She dusted the catch and the sill. A few partials emerged. She dusted the doorhandles, inside and outside, of the doors that lead to the room where Julia had been killed. Again, partials and smudges. Val swore softly. What was this guy doing, wearing gloves or something? She forced herself to calm down, then started dusting the guitar. Her eyes widened. "He's cleaned it."
Warrick shook his head. "Nothing." Whoever had killed Julia hadn't used the bathroom, aside from using the bin to dump the condom. He'd dusted the door handle, and the door, just in case, but the only clear fingerprints would most likely come back Julia. He stood up and headed back.
Valerie was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living-room, scanning the whole room, her arms folded. She didn't even acknowledge Warrick. Her eyes were hawk-like, and were the only part of her that moved.
"I found a used condom in the bathroom," Warrick cleared his throat. Val jumped, startled. "Sorry," he apologised.
"No, it's okay." Val shrugged. "It's how I assess a scene." She started looking around the room again. "He wiped the guitar clean, and he couldn't have come in through the window. It's too high off the ground."
"Maybe we should look outside," Warrick said, crossing the room towards his partner. "Find out how he got in and out…" Warrick's foot caught on the rug, and he stumbled.
Val's eyes lost their intense edge as she rushed forward. "Careful!" She said, but Warrick righted himself. "You right?"
Warrick nodded. "Yeah, I'm cool." He looked back at the rug. "Who puts a rug on carpet, anyways?"
Val and Warrick exchanged glances, then grabbed hold of the rug and peeled it back.
"What is that?"
"That looks like a cover-up." Val picked up her camera again and took photos of the trapdoor. "I'd say this counts as premeditated, don't you think?"
Warrick reached down and pulled open the trapdoor, and he and Val both peered down.
"So, who digs in the dirt with their hands?" Valerie asked flippantly.
"A raping, murdering mole man." Warrick answered.
Outside, a crowd was gathering, shivering in the night air in their nightgowns and pyjamas. They watched as Warrick and Val came out of Julia Westwood's home and started searching around the garden close to the house.
"Hey!" Warrick called, "Check this out!" Val came over and stood next to Warrick. Behind one of the hedges, on the side of the house hidden by the neighbour's fence, part of the brickwork of the home had been removed. The dirt around the opening was the same colour as the dirt in the house. "What do you think? Point of entry?"
"Only one way to find out," Val knelt down on the dewy grass and peered in the hole. "Someone has to crawl through." Warrick also knelt down, and measured the width of the hole with the measuring tape.
"Well," Warrick, "I guess I'm out - I'm too broad-shouldered to fit." He looked at Valerie. It took a second for Valerie to realise.
She turned to face him and raised an eyebrow. "Nick and Greg ask me for my phone number, and you're asking for my measurements?" Warrick laughed, and even Val had to smile at that.
"I will fit, in case you're wondering." She added.
"Good." Warrick grinned as he rose to his feet. "Well, we'd better head back to the lab. We're going to need diving equipment."
A/N: Longest chapter I have ever written. That's for you long-chapter fans out there. Next chapter coming soon. Please review!
Ahaha… Warrick asks for your measurements on your first date, ladies!