Afterlife

By EB

©2005

Chapter Fifteen

"Mr. Grissom?"

Gil looked up. The man standing before him was on the short side, maybe 5'6", and undeniably portly, dressed in a neat, cheap navy suit. He smiled, revealing bright white teeth. "I'm Detective Hinojos. We spoke earlier on the phone."

Gil accepted the handshake, nodding. "Yes. I assume you want to ask me some questions."

"Why don't I spot you a cup of coffee? You look like you could use one."

Gil glanced uncertainly over at the clot of family by the windows. They hadn't had much to say to him, not even as the surgery waiting room had filled with Stokeses, Hank and Liz and their many daughters, sons-in-law, grandchildren. The arrival of Cabe's petite, pretty wife and two children only an hour ago had set off a cascade of crying and embracing, underscoring Gil's sharp sense of helpless guilt.

No one seemed to notice now as he ducked out of the room and followed the detective to the elevator

"How's your friend?" Hinojos asked, punching the ground-floor button.

"Still in surgery." Gil leaned against the elevator wall and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I can tell you right now, I don't know who did it. I don't even have any theories."

Hinojos gave a philosophical nod. "Still, it's been a pretty big week for the family, hasn't it? One son turns out not to be dead, the other shot in public in broad daylight? I gotta tell you, Mr. Grissom, that's got all kinds of bells and whistles going off for me."

"For me, too."

"Then they're connected?"

"I think so. But I don't know how."

They didn't speak again until they were seated in the labyrinthine cafeteria, hot cups of bad coffee in front of them. With a glance around, Hinojos regarded him grimly, the professional smile gone.

"Lemme just put all the cards on the table, Mr. Grissom," he said. "I think you know more than you're saying. I believe you don't know who shot Cabe Stokes today. But there's a lot you're leaving out, isn't there? What were you doing out at the Fair Park? I'm going to assume it wasn't because y'all got the dates for the fair wrong."

Gil tasted his bitter coffee and shook his head. "Cabe asked me to meet him there. To discuss Nick."

"That's the younger brother, the one they exhumed couple days ago?"

"Or didn't exhume. It wasn't his body in the grave."

"That surprise you?"

Gil gazed into his cup. "By that point? No. No, it didn't particularly surprise me."

"Your connection to Nick Stokes?"

"He was my partner."

"And that –"

"Life partner. Lover."

No trace of censure showed on Hinojos's ruddy face; he gave an impassive nod. "Tell you what. Why don't you just start from the top, okay? Best place."

He told the detective almost everything. Everything but the call from his personal Deep Throat and the package that had materialized in his rental car the day the DNA was processed. By the time he wound down, their coffee cups were empty, and Hinojos looked troubled.

"So somebody was taking care of business," he remarked, a furrowed line carved deep between his eyebrows.

"Someone didn't want Cabe talking to me. Who that was, obviously I don't know."

"They shot him. Tried to shoot you. And what happened then?"

Gil shook his head. "From the sound of it, there was a second shooter. Unsilenced. The shot came from a different direction."

"But not shooting at you."

"No, I don't think they were. I think –" Gil broke off, frowning. "I think they were shooting at the original shooter. Whether or not they hit anyone, I don't know. Cabe was -- My concern was for him at that point."

"And you didn't see anything else? Hear anything?"

"Nothing. I wish I had."

Hinojos nodded. "You're in the cop business, aren't you, Mr. Grissom? Forensics?"

"In Las Vegas, yes."

"We got one guy who's supposed to be dead but isn't. A brother who's in surgery right now. All linked to what? An off-the-books casino audit and an accounting firm that pays its board members with funny money? How's it all link together?"

"That's what I've been trying to find out," Gil said honestly. "But it always tracked back to Texas. Evan Santley, the phone records from my house."

"That's right, your informant. Any ideas who he is?"

"None whatsoever."

"Someone from the accounting firm, maybe? Reporter?"

"I don't know. I wish I did. Whoever he is, he knows what this all means."

"Why's he calling you? What does he want?"

"I can only assume he's too close to it to do anything himself. He wants me to uncover it."

"Will you?" Hinojos asked softly.

Gil swallowed. "I think I have to try."

"You realize it's probably gonna make you the next victim?"

"Maybe."

After extracting a promise that Gil wouldn't leave the DFW area for at least another twenty-four hours, Hinojos let him return to the SICU waiting area. Liz joined him where he stood awkwardly by the far left windows.

"Any word?" Gil asked hoarsely.

She had aged over the past few hours, grooves around her mouth much more apparent, her elegantly graying hair a little mussed. "He's in recovery," she told him. "Barring any more surprises, he'll be all right."

Gil sagged a little. "Thank God. Liz, I'm so sor –"

"You didn't do this," she said in a tight voice. "I don't blame you for it. But you're hiding things from me, from all of us. Aren't you?"

"Only things I'm not sure about yet."

"Did Cabe know? What was he going to tell you?"

"I don't know. He didn't have time to say it."

Her too-bright eyes met his, filled with rage and bedrock-deep fear. "I nearly traded one son for another today, Gil," she said, shaking her head. "I'm goddamn sick of this. Did Cabe know Nick was alive? Did he?"

Gil drew a deep breath. "Yes." He saw her flinch, and hastened to add, "But there is more to it, Liz, there has to be. There must be an explanation."

"What could there be?"

"He'll have to be the one to tell you that. I don't have the answers."

She looked as if she wanted to add something else, but pressed her lips together, glancing away. Finally she said, "I refuse to risk any more of my family, Gil. Looking for Nick nearly got Cabe killed. Next time, he might not be so lucky." She returned her icy look to Gil. "So I'm asking you. Find Nick. Find out who's behind this. I have to –" Her voice shook, and she made a terrible face. "I need to be with my family now. This has all cost – too much."

"I know," he said softly. "I know that, Liz."

"What will you do?"

He sighed. "I have an errand to run today. And I need to call home, talk with one of my colleagues. Aside from that – I don't know yet."

"If I can help –"

"Don't," he said. "Let me do this, Liz. Other people need you right now."

She nodded and briefly touched his arm. "Be careful," she said, and uttered a bitter single laugh. "As much as you can."

"Of course."

Motion at the door caught their attention, and Gil looked over to see a scrubs-clad man enter the room. "Family of Cabe Stokes?"

They surrounded him immediately, a silent anxious clot of people. Hovering at the outskirts, Gil listened intently.

"Mr. Stokes came through the surgery very well. Remarkably well, really." The surgeon gave a relieved smile. "He'll need some physical therapy, and we'll be watching for infection, of course. But barring anything unexpected, he should be just fine."

Cabe's wife Molly wiped her cheeks. "Can I see him?"

"Pretty soon. He's still in recovery. But he's asking for someone, and he's very insistent. I told him it could wait, but he's so agitated, in spite of the anesthesia, I think it might be best to honor his wish."

"Who?" Hank asked.

"Someone named Gil."

Gil stood stock-still while more than a dozen pairs of eyes turned immediately to him. "I'm Gil Grissom," he said slowly.

The surgeon gave a hesitant nod. "A minute, no more, understood?"

"Of course."

The recovery area was icy-cold, busy with nurses and aides and noisy with the sounds of too much equipment. Cabe lay unmoving in a bed, connected to so many lines and monitors Gil was daunted. A sizeable man, Cabe Stokes, but he seemed sadly reduced, chalky-pale and ill.

But his eyes were open, scanning the room with feverish intent. Gil walked slowly over, stopping by his bedside. "Cabe?"

Part of the hectic clarity, he saw immediately, was drugs: Cabe was barely out of anesthesia, medicated to the eyebrows, and Gil was struck by the fact that even so, Cabe managed to fix him with a fierce glare. "Shouldn't have – met you there," he croaked, and coughed, making himself wince. "God. Stupid."

Gil clung to the bedrail, tense with sympathy. "Cabe, we can talk later, don't –"

"No." Cabe's IV-ridden hand closed on Gil's wrist. "No time. Listen. I don't – know where he is. Not now. He left – two weeks ago."

"Left where?"

"H-Houston. Running. Sc-scared."

His voice was breathy, and Gil leaned forward. "Scared of what, Cabe?" he asked tightly. "Tell me what had him on the run."

"Too – much, can't." Cabe was panting, sweat beading on his forehead.

"That's enough, sir," a nurse told him, and took a firm grip on his elbow. "He's not even out of the recovery room yet."

"Gil." Cabe fixed him with a terrible glare. "It's big. Bigger – than you know. Gotta – find Nick. I can't."

"I will," said Gil grimly. "You can bet on that."

It was a longer drive than he'd thought, to the University of North Texas campus. Denton was a typical college town, though, and not difficult to navigate once he was there. He parked in a shady visitor parking lot and grabbed his briefcase.

He found Professor Muna Kanasani in her tiny office on the first floor of the languages building. She greeted him with a smile and nod, brushing unruly dark hair off her forehead.

"Thank you for seeing me on short notice," Gil said, sitting when she gestured him to the single chair in front of her desk. "I appreciate it."

"You were fortunate you caught me before the semester started." Her smile was ingenuous, and he couldn't help echoing it. "One of our French professors is taking a sabbatical, and I'm afraid I'll be in class all day by the end of August. You said you were in need of some translating?"

He nodded and opened his case. "Even just an idea of what's here. I'm not a bad hand with German and a few other languages, but I never had the opportunity to study Arabic."

She took the sheet of paper and put on a pair of half-moon glasses, frowning slightly. "I can have a look," she said absently, already scanning the page. "Well, I can see something right away. You're missing the rest of this document."

"Oh?"

"This begins in mid-thought. And –" She glanced to the bottom of the page. "—goes on as well."

"Can you get an idea of the subject matter, at least?"

"It appears to be an affidavit of some sort. The language, however – a curious combination." She looked up. "There are two basic delineations of Arabic, did you know that? Formal, written Arabic, and colloquial spoken idioms, the common Arabic you hear on the street. This document combines them, I can only suppose because it is some sort of – memoir."

Gil nodded slowly. "Memoir of what?"

"Or a confession, perhaps. What's the legal term?"

"A deposition?"

"Yes, yes, exactly." She resumed studying the page. "It seems this person, whoever they are, is a political figure of some kind." Her accent was almost imperceptible, showing only in words like "figure," which she pronounced "figger." "He or she is talking about banking matters, the transfer of funds." She frowned more deeply. "There are references to a company or corporation of some sort, but no names. It's somewhat – disorganized, actually. Where did you get this?"

"I found it. I have no idea where it came from. Why?"

"It appears that whoever wrote this, or dictated it, was deeply concerned about political ramifications of these money transfers." She put the page down, steepling her fingers. "He seems to believe that it would be an unwise political move."

Money transfers. Gil sucked in a breath. Money siphoned into the US using a casino for laundering purposes? But from where? Iran, Saudi Arabia? Egypt? And for what purpose? "You said it's an idiom. Can you tell which? Is there anything to indicate which country this person might come from?"

"Nothing so specific. But see here." She pointed to the last section of text, tapping it with her fingernail. "This amount of money -- It's quite sensational. The author believes that transfers were made in the billions. US dollars."

"I see," Gil said unsteadily. "That is interesting."

"I would need a bit more time to do a word-for-word translation." Kanasani drew back a bit. "May I make a photocopy?"

"I don't – think that would be wise. I'd rather not have copies floating around."

"If you're willing to wait, I can attempt –"

A surge of fresh anxiety made him shake his head. "No, thank you. I -- I need to go. But thank you for your time."

"Very well." With a mildly puzzled look she handed back the page, and regarded him somberly. "If I may be so bold," she said slowly, "this may be part of a very dangerous document. There are only a few Arabic-speaking nations that could afford such tremendous transfers of cash, that I know of. And those – are politically volatile areas, I do not have to remind you. The discovery of such transfers could be – very big news."

He gave a tense nod. "I agree."

"Perhaps you should watch your back, sir."

"Believe me, I am."

In his car, he took out his cell phone and tiredly noted his fingers shaking while he dialed the lab. A couple of transfers, and he got Archie's voice mail. He waited for the message to end, and said, "Archie, it's Grissom. Call me on my cell when you get in tonight." He stated his number, and hung up.

Using the machines in Liz Stokes's well-equipped home office, Gil scanned the photograph of Nick, using the highest detail available to him. Then, seated uncomfortably at Liz's tidy desk, he attached the file to an email and sent it to Archie's inbox.

His phone rang at six on the dot. "Grissom? What's up?"

"Archie, good. I've sent you a scan of a photograph. I'd like you to take a look at it for me."

"No problem. What's the picture?"

Gil swallowed. "This is where it gets complicated. I have to ask you for maximum discretion, understood? You can't tell anyone what you see. No one, not in the lab or anywhere else. Lives may depend on it. All right?"

"Okay," Archie said slowly, sounding mystified. "What am I looking for?"

"I need to know where that picture was taken, and if possible, when."

"Gonna be hard to do when without the original."

"I realize that. But I'm in Dallas, and I can't get it to you quickly enough."

"Sure, I'll do the best I can. Anything else?"

Gil let out a brief sigh, one he hoped Archie didn't overhear, and shook his head. "Not at the moment. Call me when you find something?"

"You didn't tell me what it's a picture of."

"I don't need to," Gil said tonelessly. "You'll see soon enough."

The house felt dismally empty, Liz and Hank and everyone else clearly still at the hospital with Cabe. He briefly wished he'd let Professor Kanasani make a copy of the paper, give him a literal translation, but he'd risked too much already, going there at all. The last thing he wanted was to put even more people in jeopardy, any more than he already had.

Money, a tremendous amount of it; far more than Paul Brooks's audit had turned up. Far more than could be covered up by a few payoffs to Henley-Jackson board members, if Gil's own figures were correct. There was much, much more money involved, but where was the rest of it? Who had received it, and for what purpose? Bribes? Clandestine political maneuvering? To what end?

Deep Throat had told him it went all the way to the top. Was that as literal as it sounded? "The top" could be the president/CEO of Henley-Jackson. It could be the governor's office. And it could be higher even than that.

He made himself get up and walk to the drinks cabinet, pouring a generous measure of Hank's good Irish whiskey. The liquor tasted smoky on his tongue, burning when it hit his empty stomach. He thought about the medications Al Robbins had insisted he take, and his phone rang.

"Archie? That was quick."

"Archie? Not even close."

The voice was so familiar, so accented, for a cruel moment he thought it was Nick. And then a short, tense laugh and the southern-tinged voice added, "It's Dan Huckaby. We talked in Vegas. Remember?"

Huckaby. The reporter. Nick's lookalike. Gil sagged down into a chair and gave a nod. "Huckaby. Yes. What –"

"Look, I don't want to talk on the phone. But I gotta see you."

"See me? I'm in Dal –"

"Yeah, I know. Where can we meet?"

"Meet." A dismal flash of memory struck him: Cabe Stokes's unmoving body in his arms, the feel of his blood-soaked shirt. "I'll pick you up. Where are you?"

"At the fucking airport, in a men's room."

Mouth paper-dry, Gil said, "Stay in public places. Around people. Which terminal?"

"A. Christ, man, I hope you haul ass. I feel like I'm flapping in the breeze here."

"You are. I'll be there as soon as I can."