Afterlife

by EB

(c)2004

Chapter Ten

Donald Fargason had a very, very nice office. Gil found himself wondering just how good business had been lately. Very good, if the expensive furnishings were any indication.

Fargason himself, on the other hand, looked tired, and mildly irritated.

"I don't have to tell you, Mr. – Grissom, was it? You're talking about at least six years ago. Not exactly yesterday."

Gil nodded. "I understand that. But you'd still have records, I assume?"

"Well, of course. I'm simply saying that if you want me or anyone else to be able to tell you the details –" He lifted both hands, palm up. "I doubt anyone here would remember this specific audit."

"You don't have to. I'd simply like a look at the files."

Fargason's tightly professional smile didn't waver. "For that you'll need a warrant, I'm afraid."

Not unexpected. Gil found his own professional look, regarded Fargason calmly. "Is Benton, Goldman, & Benton a locally owned company?"

"No. We're a subsidiary, as you no doubt already know."

"Your parent company?"

The smile slipped. "Henley-Jackson."

Gil lifted his eyebrows. "They have their fingers in a lot of different pies, don't they?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact they do. Listen, Mr. Grissom, I'm sorry I can't help you. I really am."

"I appreciate your taking the time to see me." Gil smiled and stood, extending his hand. Fargason's grip was firm, but his fingers were cold against Gil's own. "I'll let you get back to work."

Fargason nodded. His answering smile looked shaky to Gil's eyes. "Not a problem, Mr. Grissom."

In the reception area, he saw a dark-haired woman walking his way. Her eyes met his, and she lifted her chin imperceptibly at the elevator.

When the doors closed, he turned to her. She didn't introduce herself. "Listen to me," she said in a tight, harsh voice. "No one here will help you. Not with this."

He gazed at her. "And yet you're here."

"Those records were destroyed three days after Paul died. That's what Don didn't tell you."

"Destroyed? What –"

"Shut up and listen," she snapped, after a fast glance at the progress of the digital numbers on the elevator readout. "There was a reporter around for a while. It was years ago, but he had a lot of information, on Paul, on the break-in. He didn't think it was legit. Find him; he'll tell you what I can't."

"Who are you?" Gil whispered.

The woman let out a shaky breath. He thought she would be attractive if she didn't seem so fearful. "No one," she said. "No one, okay? But Paul was a – friend. A good friend."

"It was a setup," Gil said. "Wasn't it? It wasn't a real robbery."

"The reporter's name was Huckaby, something Huckaby. He worked for the Post-Sentinel."

The elevator dinged, and Gil managed a husked, "Thank you," before the doors opened and his unknown informant brushed past him, already dialing something on her cell phone.

A call to the paper told him a Daniel Huckaby was no longer employed as a staff reporter, but after a couple of transfers, he got through to an editor. According to him, Huckaby had left his position a couple of years ago to do more freelance work, and still wrote a few pieces for the Post-Sentinel now and then.

He stopped at the lab to co-opt the PD software. Huckaby had a south Vegas address and three phone lines, none of which were listed numbers. He also, according to the database, had four outstanding parking tickets, an alarming amount of credit debt, and a criminal record: two trespassing charges, both dismissed out of court and the most recent nearly three years previously. Well, he was an investigative journalist; Gil had a pretty good idea how he might have been caught snooping.

Other than that, Huckaby sounded fairly mundane. Gil printed off the address and tucked the folded sheet of paper in his breast pocket.

"Thought you were sick."

Gil glanced up at Jim Brass, standing in the doorway of his office. "I did have a migraine," Gil said, and powered down his computer. "Better now."

Brass looked tired. "Working?"

"Just stopped by for something. You look terrible. Shouldn't you be off by now?"

"In a kinder, gentler PD, I probably would." Brass didn't smile. "Your mystery caller was in Houston."

Gil froze for a split-second, and then nodded. "Who is he?"

"He's a pay phone. Which might have helped at the time, but doesn't particularly now."

Allowing himself a brief sigh – of course it wouldn't be that easy – Gil made his way around the desk. "Worth a shot. Go home, Jim. Get some sleep."

"Where are you off to?"

"To see Bob Woodward."

"Who?"

Gil smiled. "Never mind."

Huckaby's address was a tidy condo on a cul-de-sac. Gil parked at the curb, absently thinking that he'd looked at one of these, several years ago. A brief flirtation with moving, that hadn't gone beyond the looking-around stages. Couldn't remember whether or not he'd liked these. They blended in with too many too-similar others.

He leaned on the bell three times before he heard the lock turning. A shadowy face was barely visible; Gil squinted in the white sunlight.

"Daniel Huckaby?"

"If you're selling Bibles, I'm not interested."

"No Bibles. My name is Gil Grissom." He dug out his badge. "With the Las Vegas crime lab. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

He still couldn't make out anything clearly, but the man had a low, pleasant voice. "Questions about what?"

"Some investigative work I think you did, a few years ago. It pertained to the death of Paul Brooks. Brooks was an accountant with –"

"Come in, for God's sake. Quick." The door swung wider. "Don't just stand there."

The interior of Huckaby's condo was starkly modern, underfurnished even for Gil's somewhat ascetic taste. A single black sofa stood in the center of the room, with a matte black chunk of marble functioning as a coffee table. The only chair was equally black and equally uncomfortable-looking. A huge, monochromatically red painting occupied the far wall. Those were the only furnishings Gil made out.

Huckaby himself was slightly taller than Gil, and well-built. Dressed in jeans and a gray knit shirt, he clashed with his own house, casual and not particularly neat. Dark hair in need of a trim, and a day's worth of stubble on his chin.

He was staring, and knowing that fact didn't change what ran through his mind, lightning-quick and shocked. Jesus, he looks like Nick. Dark eyes, dark hair, and I haven't seen him smile yet but I know when I do, it will be radiant. Just like Nick.

"Sorry." Huckaby's voice was much deeper than Nick's, thankfully, but clad in a soft accent that was cruelly similar. A hand went up to smooth his hair. "You can't be too careful."

Blinking his way out of his dazed stare, Gil nodded. "So I gather," he said. "But I'm not sure why. Not yet."

With a snort Huckaby said, "Keep going. You'll get it eventually. Listen, you want some coffee or something?"

"Sure. Coffee would be great."

He followed Huckaby into the equally modern kitchen. "Word to the wise," the man said while he took down a can of coffee from the cabinet. "You don't just walk up to people and ask them about Henley-Jackson. I mean, not without making sure the place isn't wired first."

Gil frowned. "I wasn't aware I was even asking about Henley-Jackson. Should I be?"

"Paul Brooks did. Evan Santley did."

"Santley. You knew him?"

Huckaby shook his head, running water into the coffee pot. "Not personally. He was shot before I ever had the chance." He cast Gil a narrow glance. "How do you not know this shit yet? How'd you find me?"

"A woman at Benton, Goldman, & Benton. I never found out her name. She said she knew of a journalist who'd investigated Brooks's murder."

"Huh. Bet it was Diane Abram. She was pretty tight with Brooks. Always wondered if they were having some kind of affair. She took his death hard."

"She told me," Gil said slowly, "that all the records of that Horseshoe audit were destroyed three days after Brooks's death. Is that true?"

"Yep." Huckaby leaned back against the counter while the coffeemaker bubbled. "That's part of the reason why it's been so hard to put all the pieces together. A friend of mine -- He had quite a few. So what's your interest here? Don't tell me the PD is investigating. They're too chicken-shit to take this on."

"No," Gil agreed mildly. "This is more a personal thing."

The dark eyes trained on him were far more knowing than he felt comfortable with. "Okay. So now you're here."

"Why did you stop investigating?"

"Who says I did?"

"You left your job. Went free-lance. Is this why?"

Huckaby turned to take two white coffee cups out of another cabinet. His tone was muffled. "I left because I didn't have much of a choice. They put the whammy on me."

Gil frowned. "Whammy?"

"Started out with anonymous phone calls. Telling me to leave this one alone, that it was more dangerous than I knew." He set the cups down with a solid thunk. "Then weird shit started happening. One of my key sources for a totally unrelated story recanted. Said I'd made it all up. My credibility was for shit. All of a sudden I was being treated like a goddamn cub reporter, you know? My editor double-checking everything I did." He walked over to the stainless steel refrigerator and took out half-and-half. "But when my house burned down, I started wondering if maybe I shouldn't leave Henley-Jackson alone."

"Burned down?"

"Yeah. Three years ago." He lifted his chin. "This place, I rent from a friend. Furnished and everything. What there is of it."

"You know for sure it was arson? Related to your work on Brooks?"

"Know it for a fact, absolutely. Convince the fire marshal that's what it was? Not so easy." He poured coffee into the cups and held one out to Gil. "Come in the study. It's not quite as museum-y."

The study was indeed a little more lived-in. "Maybe you ought to start at the beginning," Huckaby told him when they were seated. "You said it was a personal thing?"

"Very personal, I admit. I know that Paul Brooks's death was suspicious. I know that the audit he supposedly did on the Horseshoe was most likely not pre-planned, something that rarely happens with the casinos." Gil sipped the adequate coffee. "What I don't know -- I don't know much more than that. Who killed Paul Brooks?"

"A guy named Javier Lewis. But you know that. He was executed for it."

"You think he really did it?"

Huckaby shrugged. In the dimmer light of the study the resemblance to Nick was even more marked. "I'm sure he did. It's why he did it that no one wanted to talk about."

"Which was?"

"It was a hit, of course. Don't tell me you didn't figure that part out yet."

"All right. So who hired him? Coppa?"

"Oh, that order came from a lot higher place than Coppa. Coppa was a middle-man. He didn't give orders; he carried them out."

"Who did? Someone at Henley-Jackson?"

"Almost certainly. I never found out who." Huckaby gave a tiny, wry smile: his first that Gil had seen. "By the time I got this far I was just trying to keep my job. And stay alive."

"Tell me about Lewis?"

"Not much to tell. He worked for Coppa for several years before Brooks's murder, but the year before he stopped. Then the week before the break-in he goes back on Coppa's payroll, only he never shows up at the casino."

Gil shifted uneasily. "I find it hard to believe the police never investigated this connection, frankly."

"Yeah, in hindsight, sounds sort of suspicious, doesn't it?" Huckaby regarded him alertly. "Makes you wonder just how far Henley-Jackson cast the nets."

"How far?"

"A lot farther than you know."

Stung, Gil said, "So tell me what YOU know. Then maybe we'll be on the same page."

"Hey, you're acting as if I'm still working on this. No way. I'd like to keep on breathing, thank you very much."

"Not everyone had that option," Gil snapped. "Ever think of that?"

Huckaby's smile was gone, but he was nodding. "Yeah," he said softly. "Every fucking day."

After a silent moment Gil said, "I apologize. This -- As I said, it has a personal meaning for me."

Huckaby sighed and finished his coffee. "So what do you say," he replied, "to starting over here. What's your angle? Why are you here?"

Gil swallowed. "My partner was killed in August. Murdered. And I believe – I know – that his death had something to do with Paul Brooks, and whatever Brooks found at the Horseshoe casino."

"Okay," Huckaby said cautiously. His eyes narrowed. "Who was your partner? We talking lover here?"

"We worked together. And we were lovers, yes."

"Wait a second." Huckaby lifted a hand, and Gil saw that his fingers were shaking. "You work for the PD, right?"

"Criminalistics. The crime lab. I'm not a police officer."

"Forensics. You do forensics."

"Right," Gil agreed, frowning. "Why?"

Huckaby's color had drained, leaving him slightly greenish looking. "Jesus."

"What?" Gil pressed, leaning forward.

"Your – partner. He was Nick, wasn't he?"

Hearing Huckaby say the name felt like a sharp slap; Gil recoiled. "You knew Nick?"

"Why didn't you say? Oh, Jesus," Huckaby moaned. "You knew Nicky. Oh, Christ."

"Tell me what –"

"Who do you think my goddamn source was?" Huckaby snapped. "The Easter bunny?"