Afterlife
By EB
©2004
Chapter Nine
It was child's play – at least for a criminalist – to get his hands on a few airline passenger manifests. Who had flown to Las Vegas from Dallas this morning? There were six flights on three airlines; Cabe was on the third he checked. He'd arrived at 0915.
And thank God for the internet. Because it was equally easy to turn Cabe's flight around and see when he was scheduled to depart. If he'd wanted to be truly secretive, he could have used a different name. But there it was, in plain black and white: Cabe Stokes, flight 965, departing at 2110 tonight.
Gil glanced at his watch. Nearly a quarter past eight now. He could make it. Just barely.
Catherine was in her office, on the phone, looking up distractedly at his appearance.
"Cover for me?" Gil whispered. "I need to take care of something."
She frowned and said, "I know, that's what I thought as well." Hand covering the mouthpiece, she hissed, "Something? Where are you going?"
"I'll be back in an hour or two. Thanks, I owe you one."
He heard her say, "Just one?" as he turned his back and fled back down the hall.
It was nearly nine before he pulled his truck to a stop in a no-parking zone. He stuck a police pass in his dashboard, ignored the frowning curbside attendant, and made a beeline for the concourse.
Security balked at his gun, and was only slightly mollified when he produced his PD credentials. With a faint qualm he surrendered his sidearm. Hardly likely to need it, but these days he felt more secure with it on his person. Just in case. What contingency he was planning for, he wasn't sure, but fact was, he liked being armed.
Cabe's flight was departing from the second-to-last gate in the C terminal. It took a moment to inspect the milling would-be passengers and make out Cabe's muscular form. Standing near the jetway entrance, no baggage. He looked tense.
Gil fought down a flare of hot anger and strode forward. Studying a group of chattering tourists carrying shopping bags, Cabe didn't see him until he grabbed Cabe's elbow, fingers digging in hard. Then Cabe flinched hugely, dark eyes round.
"We need to talk," Gil told him.
"Gil?" Cabe gasped. "Jesus. You scared the shit out of me."
"Feeling jumpy?" Gil kept the distance between them closed. "We can talk here, or we can talk in private, but either way we're going to talk."
"My flight leaves in –"
"If you miss it, you can catch the next one. Come on."
Any other time it would have been faintly comical. Cabe Stokes was a couple of inches taller than he was, and carried far more muscle; for Gil to drag him down the crowded hallway like a tugboat hauling a protesting ocean liner was probably pretty ridiculous. He didn't care. And he didn't let go of Cabe's bicep until they'd reached the small, half-full bar nearly the terminal entrance.
"Sit," Gil snapped, pointing Nick's brother at a two-top at the back of the bar.
Sometime during that half-walk, half-jog down the hall, Cabe's look had turned inscrutable, no longer anxious to the casual eye. But he sat, dwarfing the little table, features now murky in the bar's faint light.
Lowering himself into the other chair, Gil drew a deep breath. "You lied," he said just loudly enough to carry over the other conversations. "You lied to me about why you were here."
"It's not what you think." Cabe even sounded calmer than he had a few minutes ago. Calmer than he had since that visit to Gil's house, in fact.
"What I think? You tell ME what I think," Gil flared. "I have no earthly idea what's going on."
Cabe's mouth tightened, and the wary light in his eyes intensified. "Take my advice," he told Gil in a gruff voice. "Do your best to keep it that way."
"I want some answers, Cabe! Not this cryptic suspense-novel bullshit! What were you looking for? And why'd you have to lie to me about it?"
"You don't understand." Cabe's voice sounded just a little whiny. "It's very – complicated."
Gil gave a crisp nod. "Let me tell you what I do understand," he said in a low voice. "I understand that you were looking for something in Nick's things. In my garage. I understand that you used your own resources to find out where Warrick Brown lived, and went there just to have a look at Nick's desk. What was in that desk, Cabe?"
Cabe shot a dire look at the waitress walking toward them, and she stopped, taking a step backward before turning away. When he looked back at Gil there was no mistaking the anguish in his gaze. "Nothing," he said tonelessly. "Nothing at all."
"Did it have anything to do with Paul Brooks' death?"
Now it was Cabe who grabbed Gil, strong hand snapping out to close over his wrist. Gil felt the bones actually move a little under Cabe's fingers. "What do you know about that?" Cabe whispered.
"I know Nick suspected something else was going on," Gil managed. "I know he didn't think it was a random break-in."
Just as fast as he'd grabbed him, Cabe let go, shaking his head. "Jesus, Gil. For your own sake, please let it go. Don't pursue it. The less you know, the better."
"Too late," Gil said harshly. "Is this why Nick died? Tell me! Is this why he was murdered?"
"My flight's leaving. I have to go." Cabe stood, rocking the table with his thighs.
Gil didn't stand up. "I need to know, Cabe. I don't want to know, I NEED to know. Can you understand that? He was – everything to me."
This time Cabe's hand clasped his shoulder, and the strong fingers were gentle, squeezing briefly. "I know," Cabe said gruffly. "I know he was. Okay? But I can't help you. I can't. I have to go."
Staring at the tabletop, Gil said, "I'll find out. You know I will."
"Then God help you, Gil. Because I can't. I have to go."
Gil didn't move until long after Cabe had jogged away. It was only as he waved the waitress away again and saw her annoyed expression that he thought to wonder what Cabe had done with Nick's things.
"So the prodigal returns."
Gil glanced up. "Hi."
Brass's tentative half-smile vanished as he sat in the chair opposite Gil's desk. "Got a minute?"
"Several, I guess." Gil tossed his pen on the desk. "In fact I'd welcome a distraction."
"Okay, well, you know that case, that isn't a case? The one we're not working?"
Gil stared at him. "Yes," he said tightly. "What?"
Brass nodded and said, "No luck in Reno. If there's a Johnny, we'll never find him. Not that way."
Gil gave an answering stiff nod. "I suspected as much."
"So you still want to pursue this? Because I believe you when you say there's more to it, but all I'm finding are brick walls. Big, thick brick walls."
"Oh, I'll pursue it," Gil whispered. "Believe me on that."
Brass's eyes narrowed. "What's going on?"
It only took a few minutes to tell the story of Cabe's odd arrival, and odder departure. As he finished, Brass sighed and leaned back in his chair. "We're in over our heads, Gil," he said baldly. "Christ, what the hell is all this? He was warning you off. Or threatening you."
"Not the first warning I've had."
"What?"
"I got an odd phone call, after you and Catherine left the other night. A man, wouldn't identify himself. He told me to leave it alone."
"And you're just now telling me this?" Brass snapped. "Jesus!"
"I want you to do something for me," Gil said slowly. "I want your promise, right now, that you'll do as I say. All right?"
"Screw that," came Brass's gruff reply.
"I'm serious, Jim. I need your promise."
"Christ. WHAT?"
Gil nodded shortly. "That you'll leave this alone. That you'll forget about it, walk away. Right now."
"That's a joke, right? That's a goddamn JOKE."
"No. It's not."
Brass's face was flushed, his mouth turned down in a ferocious scowl. "You got some kind of martyr complex, Grissom? Is that it? You gonna see how quick you can manage to meet Nick at the pearly gates?"
"It's not that," Gil said hoarsely. "But the more I uncover, the more dangerous this appears to be. I won't take you down with it, Jim. You or Catherine. This is my problem, not yours."
"Your PROBLEM? Aw, Jesus." Brass reached up to scrub his face vigorously with his hands, and then gazed at him. "Let me let you in on a little secret, Gil, all right? This isn't just your case. It's mine, too. All right? Nick Stokes was my friend. He mattered to me, too. So stop this – bullshit, stop trying to PROTECT me, and get with the program! What was Nick's brother looking for?"
"The key," Gil whispered. "He was looking for the key. I'm sure of it."
Brass swallowed and then nodded. "The one you showed me. Did you tell him?"
"No. I didn't."
"You figured out what it opened, didn't you?"
"A safety-deposit box. Like we thought."
"And?"
"I can't –"
"TELL ME!" Brass roared.
With a jerky nod, Gil said, "It was – strange. So strange, Jim. Money, and – and fake identification. Passports, drivers licenses, even a birth certificate."
Brass drew back a little. "What?"
"I know. I know, it's bizarre."
"Nick had fake ID? What the hell for?"
Gil leaned back in his chair. "There are only a few conclusions I can draw," he replied, and sighed.
"He was gonna bug out?"
"What else could it be?"
"And what? Never had a chance to do it?"
"I guess not. Jim, he -- There was an ID in there for me, too. A passport with a fake name and my picture. I never knew it was there. Never."
Brass gave a slow nod. "Sounds like whatever he was planning to do, he wanted to take you with him."
"Someone got to him first."
"Yeah," Brass said softly. "Sounds like it. So what was with the brother? Why'd he want this crap?"
Gil shook his head. "I don't know. It doesn't make sense. Nick is dead; he doesn't need it."
"Anything else you found? Anything at all?"
"There's the money. He had about $5,000 in cash in the box. But Cabe wouldn't have been looking for that. I can't even conceive of it."
"What else?"
Gil nibbled on his lower lip, and then said, "There was an appointment book."
Brass's nostrils flared. "Yeah?"
"An old one. From 1998. It's what first got me thinking that this entire situation started a number of years ago."
"You might have mentioned this before now," Brass said in a thin voice. "You know?"
Gil shrugged. "If that's what Cabe was after -- But why? Covering Nick's tracks? What possible reason could he have?"
"I'm not sure. But whatever Nicky was into, maybe Cabe's in it, too. Ever thought of that?"
Gil stared at him. "Cabe -- He and Nick weren't terribly close. Friendly, but not –" He broke off, his thoughts roiling. "Nick told him," he whispered. "Something. Cabe Stokes works for the SEC. He has connections, political friends. And Paul Brooks was auditing a casino."
"Who the hell is Paul Brooks?"
"A case Nick worked, very early on. February 1998. Murdered during the course of a robbery, but it's pretty clear Nick thought there was more to it than that."
Brass sighed. "Tell me. And for Christ's sake, don't leave anything out this time."
It took longer to tell than he'd expected, mostly because Brass asked a number of pointed questions. But it felt weirdly good to tell. He felt lighter at the end of it. Not comforted per se, but definitely relieved.
"Sutter was a good cop," Brass said slowly. "And he's right about Coppa. No way he would have stood for a surprise audit."
Gil nodded. "Which leads me to a natural question."
"What did Brooks find?"
"Exactly."
"Christ, and this was what? 1998? Good luck tracking that one down."
"Brooks worked for Benton, Goldman, and Benton. Accounting firm. I want to know whose idea it was to audit the Horseshoe that winter."
"Me, I'm more interested in who's making death threats."
"Threat. Singular. And it sounded more like a warning than a threat."
"Kissing cousins," Brass replied stolidly.
"Maybe."
"I want your phone records."
Gil gazed at him. "All right," he said after a moment. "Yes."
Brass was near the door when Gil added, "So why now?"
Turning, Brass frowned. "Why now what?"
"If Brooks was killed in 1998 for an unauthorized audit, and Nick suspected something wasn't kosher at the time – Why wait until now to kill him? Why not back then?"
Brass didn't reply for a moment. Hand on the doorknob, he drew a deep breath. "Because," he said slowly, "the audit wasn't all Nicky found."
Gil nodded. "No," he murmured. "I don't think it was, either."
At home the next morning, he drank two cups of coffee and got out bread for toast before finally, reluctantly admitting that the tight, hot sensation in his forehead was in fact the opening salvos of a migraine. Ten minutes later he smelled burning oranges, and saw telltale globs of glaring white in his peripheral vision. Yes. Like it or not, the black horse was galloping his direction.
The headache built with the fast inexorability of a desert thunderstorm, and an hour later he was lying on the couch, a cold cloth on his forehead, two Dilaudid tablets dissolving in his stomach. So many things he needed to do, ideas he wanted to investigate, but his head hurt so much. The pills would help eventually, if he could keep them down. Enough that he would sleep, finally, and if he was lucky, when he awoke the pain would be, if not entirely gone, reduced to something approaching a manageable level.
Instead he threw up the pills, and then threw up nothing at all several times, and by the end of it he could hardly see, tears running down his cheeks. He crawled into bed and tugged the covers up high, and sandwiched his head between two pillows before closing his eyes.
At three he got up to vomit again, and when that spate was done, his mouth tasting foul and the pain slamming against the backs of his eyes, he called Catherine.
"Migraine?" she asked, after his garbled introduction.
"Yes," he whispered, and closed his eyes. "Bad one."
"Want me to come over? You need anything?"
"I won't be there tonight," he told her. He belched once, silently, and tasted fresh bile. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize. Aw, Gil. You want me to take you to the ER? Get you some good stuff?"
"No. No. Just need – quiet."
"Okay. Gil, call me if it gets worse. Please?"
"Yes. Have to go."
"Okay. I'm sorry."
He hung up and then leaned over the wastebasket.
When he went to bed again, it was with self-pity curdled like sour milk in his belly. If Nick were here, he'd take care of him. If Nick hadn't died, he could have helped him clean up, and made sure he had some 7-Up or something, made sure he took more Dilaudid. But Nick was gone, Nick would never return, and he was so alone. So horribly, unspeakably alone.
He choked down two more tablets, and pulled the covers over his head.
At some point the Dilaudid came through, casting a warm opiate blanket over the worst of the pain, and he slept heavily, waking sometime in the middle of the night to take a leak and brush his furry teeth, and then returning to bed and immediately falling asleep again.
The next morning the pain was still there, but a pale shadow of itself. The horse was leaving, not at a gallop but a steady trot, and Gil felt almost tearfully glad. Christ, the worst in years, maybe ever.
He was barely awake when his phone rang. The house phone, not his cell, and he wondered what would have Catherine using that number when she knew there was no extension in the bedroom. The remnants of the synthetic morphine clung, making his thoughts slow, thick as molasses. Rubbing his crusty eyes, he shambled out into the living room and picked up on the seventh ring.
"You're not listening, are you?"
Gil sat down in a chair, grasping the receiver in suddenly trembling fingers. "You haven't told me anything," he said shakily.
The man was silent, then cleared his throat. The same flat, accentless voice. "There's more to it than the casino. Much, much more."
"I assumed as much. Tell me. For god's sake."
"The casino's the tip of the iceberg. What about the firm?"
"Where Brooks worked."
An impatient snort. "I heard you were a smart man, Mr. Grissom; now prove it. Look at the firm. Everything you need to know is right there."
Gil swallowed. "You told me to stay away, the other night."
"And you didn't."
"No."
"Look at the firm. I can't stay on this line."
"Who are you?" Gil stood and felt his knees quivering beneath him. Grabbing the edge of the breakfast bar, he continued, "Tell me what this is. What did Nick find out? Who shot him?"
A tiny pause, and then he heard a dial tone. With a curse, he slammed the receiver down, and then winced as a vagrant needle of pain materialized behind his nose.
TBC. EB