7/22/06

RUBATO

Chapter 2

It was approaching full darkness, by the time Nick pulled into the driveway of the big Victorian house that served as Lady Heather's Domain. But the lot was empty and the big house was almost completely dark, despite the lateness of the hour. Even the porch light was dark.

Knowing the intense loss the woman had suffered so recently, Nick wondered if the lovely dominatrix had sold her house and business and had left the city. He also wondered if she had been forced to close her business as part of some plea bargain with the D.A., to avoid jail time for her attack on Johann Sneller, the man who had brutally murdered her daughter. It was with some hesitation that he knocked on the front door. After a moment, the porch light came on and the door opened.

Heather Kessler stood in the doorway, looking very different from the woman he had last seen a little over a month ago. But in Nick's mind, she had never looked more beautiful. She had set aside her usual tight, revealing, black dresses and was wearing a pair of well-cut jeans and an oversized gray sweater. Her auburn hair was pulled back in a loose braid and she was wearing only minimal make-up. It was quite obvious that she was not entertaining clients this evening. Still, she smiled when she recognized him and she remembered his name.

"Mr. Stokes, to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" she asked, ever the graceful hostess.

"Uh, I'm sorry to disturb you, ma'am, but I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about a young woman who used to work for you, Jenna Carlyle?"

"Jenna Carlyle...," Heather repeated the name musingly. "Ah, yes, I remember her now. Yes, please, come in, Mr. Stokes."

She stood aside and gestured for him to enter, which he did. The foyer he stepped into was heavily shadowed and the big house was almost eerily quiet.

"Why don't we retire to the four-seasons room?" she suggested. "It's at the back of the house. It's very pleasant there this time of night... I was just about to have a beer. Would you care to join me?"

Nick gave a slight shrug. "I'm technically off the clock. Sure, why not? Thank you."

She led him through the dark house, to a large room, with an impressive row of tall, narrow windows. As it was still early spring, the windows were closed. A warm fire was going in the fireplace and, along with several lit candles, it provided the only light in the room.

Leaving him to make himself comfortable on the overstuffed couch, which faced the bank of windows, Heather disappeared to get their drinks. She returned a few minutes later and handed Nick an ice cold bottle of Guinness. She settled on the couch beside him with her own bottle and they sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, just sipping their beers and looking at the lights of the city beyond the windows.

"La-, uh, Ms. Kessler, I just wanted to say that I'm very sorry for your loss," Nick said sincerely, breaking the long silence.

"Thank you."

"So, have you closed the business?" he asked, hooking a thumb back toward the main part of house behind them. "Did you have to make a deal with the D.A.?"

"No, I didn't. After Mr. Grissom showed the D.A. photographs of Zoe's mutilated body, he decided not to prosecute me for my attack on Sneller. Apparently the D.A. agreed that my actions were justifiable. But ever since that incident, I seem to have... lost my way. I can't seem to be with a client now without seeing Sneller's face and feeling that blood lust again. I don't trust myself to be with clients anymore. But I've found that I can't stand the sound of the screams anymore either. They conjure up too many uncomfortable images. I've closed the business indefinitely."

Her voice was quite calm and composed while she'd spoken of these things, staring out at the city. But abruptly she turned to face Nick and her eyes glittered fiercely in the candlelight with rigidly suppressed rage.

"You understand what I'm talking about, don't you, Mr. Stokes?" she asked quietly.

"Yes."

"Yes," she repeated. "I saw the news reports last year. I know what happened to you. You understand how I feel, why I did what I did."

"Yeah, I think I do."

"He didn't," she said, turning her face back to the windows again. "If he had truly understood, he wouldn't have stopped me." There was no need for her to explain who 'he' was. Nick knew precisely who she was referring to. "There was a time when I thought he understood me, but apparently he never really did."

"There's a lot he doesn't understand."

She turned to face Nick again and a sort of silent communication passed between them. "He's disappointed you as well, hasn't he?"

This time, it was Nick who looked away. "Well, I suppose I've disappointed him. So, I guess it's mutual."

"I imagine that most people disappoint him. Who could possibly live up to his standards? But, God, what a lonely existence..."

With slight shake of her head and soft smile, she said, "I'm sorry, I've gotten off track. You came to speak to me about Jenna Carlyle?"

"Uh, yes, she was found dead in her apartment early this morning. I understand she used to work for you."

"Yes, briefly, for only about a year. She was a submissive, but I didn't think she was truly... suited for the business. Eventually, I had to let her go, for her own safety."

"What do you mean?"

"She could sometimes become too 'clingy', too passive, which can be dangerous in this business. It generally only happened with a certain type of client, older men, in positions of power, but it happened often enough that I finally had to take steps."

"Do you think she was suicidal?"

Heather considered the question for a moment before answering. "She was sometimes desperate for approval, particularly from the clients which I've already described, but suicidal? No, she was generally a very positive person and a very talented musician."

"Yes, I heard a tape of her playing. She came to Vegas to play for the Philharmonic Orchestra. Do you happen to know why she left so abruptly and after only a few months?"

"She was having an affair with the married conductor of the orchestra. His wife found out. I did mention that Jenna had a weakness for older men in power... There's something you must understand about Jenna, Mr. Stokes. She told me once that when she was a child, she was repeatedly sexually molested by her father, who was a judge.

"When a child is sexualized at an early age, they often grow up feeling that their only worth in life, is as a sexual object. I believe that's why Jenna could never hold a job as a musician. She never felt that she was good enough, no matter how much praise she received. It also explains why she sought jobs in the sex business, as well as her weakness for certain clients."

With her naturally keen observation skills and her uncanny intuition, Heather had seen the way Nick had abruptly dropped his gaze and shifted uncomfortably on the couch while she had spoken of the dead girl's past. Heather laid a gentle hand on his arm. "You were sexually molested as a child, Mr. Stokes?"

The thick veil of long, concealing, dark lashes lifted as Nick raised his eyes to meet hers and, for a moment, she saw the old pain in those eyes, confirming her suspicions, before he quickly looked away again. He cleared his throat loudly and said, "Uh, I found evidence to suggest that there had been a man in her apartment. Would you happen to know if Jenna had a boyfriend or if she entertained clients in her home?"

Deciding to let her question remain unanswered for the time being, Heather said, "I very much doubt she entertained clients in her home. Very few prostitutes would. It's generally not safe for clients to know where you live. She wasn't a foolish girl. As for a boyfriend, I'm afraid I wouldn't know. I hadn't seen her for several months."

"Your clients know where you live," Nick couldn't help pointing out.

"Yes, but none of my clients would dare to invade my privacy," Heather said, with the barest hint of a smile and a slight edge to her voice.

"No, ma'am, I suppose not... So, do you know if Jenna was particularly close to anyone? I mean, did she have a good friend here at your Domain, that you know of? I'd really like to speak to someone who was close to her."

"Hmm, I don't recall her being especially friendly with anyone while she worked here. And we didn't exactly stay in touch after she left, but I can make a few inquiries. The Las Vegas sex scene is a surprisingly small and intimate one, especially for those of us working in the... higher economic range. We all tend to know each other, or of each other at least. Even those of us who manage to say on the 'right' side of the law. For instance... I knew Kristy Hopkins and I know what you did for her."

"You knew Kristy?"

"I didn't know her well, but yes, I knew her. And what you did for her was very generous. Not many men would have made such a gesture for a dead whore."

"Kristy wasn't a whore!" Nick said quickly. "She was just going through a..."

"A rough patch?" Heather finished for him, one fine eyebrow elegantly arched. "No, Mr. Stokes, you're right, she wasn't a whore. That's an ugly word which implies a complete lack of self-respect. And Kristy had plenty of self-respect, but make no mistake, Mr. Stokes, she was no tarnished angel, either. She was a very beautiful, manipulative, ambitious woman, who knew exactly what she wanted and exactly how to get what she wanted. And that included you."

Nick looked up at these words, but said nothing.

"After all, what prostitute wouldn't want a friend in the police department? No, you're not a cop, but close enough. She would have used you, Mr. Stokes, shamelessly."

Now Nick looked away, frowning, his cheeks a slight shade warmer. Heather pressed a forefinger under his chin and tilted his face back towards her again.

"Now, that doesn't mean that she wouldn't have enjoyed every, single minute of using you...," the woman said, her voice low and sultry.

After a moment of this intense eye contact, Nick burst out laughing, his cheek now flaming. Clearing his throat again, he said, "Uh, getting back to Jenna..."

"Oh, yes," Heather said, smiling as well. "As I said, I'll make a few inquiries. I'll let you know if I find anyone."

"Thank you, I'd appreciate that. Oh, uh, did Jenna happen to leave anything behind after she left your employ? I don't know, an address book or something? I'm reaching, I know."

"A little, black book, perhaps? Hmm, I don't recall her leaving anything," Heather said thoughtfully. "But let me check. Come with me."

They both stood and she led him back through the house, toward the large kitchen. Just off from the kitchen was a large room, with shelves lining all four of the walls. The room had probably originally been designed to be used as a pantry. But as Lady Heather obviously didn't spend much time cooking, she used it as a storage room.

The shelves were overflowing with an odd assortment of items, from a somewhat rusty metal sprinkler head, to an enormous, hot pink dildo, roughly the length and width of Nick's forearm. The investigator picked up the soft, foam latex monster and examined it with a wide-eyed and slightly pained expression.

"That's basically just for show," Heather said, with a smile.

"I should hope so," the Texan said and returned it to its shelf.

"This is my junk closet of sorts," Heather explained, turning to examine the shelves. "Anything I don't want to throw away, but don't have a place for, ends up here... Hmm, I'm not finding anything..."

Nick, however, wasn't listening. His attention was currently consumed by a small, red and gold, lacquered mask he had found on the shelf just below the dildo. The mask was in the shape of an elaborate Asian dragon's face, complete with snarling snout and fangs. But the mask was entirely too small to be worn over the face of an adult, and probably most children, and there were no holes at the eyes, only one large, round hole at the mouth. Holding the mask out from his face, Nick wondered how you were supposed to see out of the thing and who, exactly, was intended to wear it, an infant?"

"That doesn't go over your face," Heather said helpfully, her expression carefully neutral.

The investigator looked at her in confusion for a moment, before the truth clicked into place. Nick looked at the mask and its one, large hole then glanced down at his crotch. "Oh!" he gasped and quickly set the mask aside, his cheeks burning.

Heather was smiling openly now. "Do my toys make you uncomfortable, Mr. Stokes?" she asked in a teasing voice.

"No, ma'am, I just don't really see the point of them. I mean, if a man and a woman are really into each other, why would they need all this?" he asked, gesturing to the 'toys'.

"A good question, but what if they aren't 'really into each other' anymore? Sometimes the toys can make all the difference, save a failing relationship."

"I suppose, but it seems to me that if you have to go to these kinds of lengths just to get some excitement back into your relationship, maybe it's time to just call it quits."

"You have such a simple outlook on the world..." she said softly, but seeing the flash of irritation in his eyes, added quickly, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to sound condescending. Truly, I find it refreshing. So many of the men who come here are already so jaded and damaged, it's rare to find a man who's comfortable enough in his own skin that he doesn't require any... special handling."

The two stood looking at each other for a long moment, before Nick finally said, "Uh, I should probably get going. It's getting late and I've taken up enough of your time. Thank you for your help, and the beer."

"You made me smile tonight, Mr. Stokes. I haven't done that in a very long time. Thank you."

"Sure, any time."

She walked him to the front door. They both paused for a moment in the open doorway, just looking at each other, suddenly awkward. Abruptly, Heather reached out and brushed the heavy fall of hair off his forehead.

"I like the longer hair," she said. "It's always nice for a girl to have something to run her fingers through. Good night, Mr. Stokes, feel free to stop by for a beer any time you like."

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Walking through the door of his house, Nick found the little cat waiting for him. It sat glaring at him, as though reprimanding him for his tardiness, the little stub of tail twitching in irritation.

There had always been plenty of stray cats running around his parents' ranch when Nick was a kid. As they killed the mice that lived in the barn and the rabbits that burrowed in the fields, they were tolerated and even encouraged to stay. Nick remembered that his sisters had often gone to great lengths to try and tame the half-wild kittens and had given them all names.

But Nick had never been much interested in the kittens. Sure, they were cute and all, in a lethal kind of way, but he had always preferred dogs. Now, he remembered why. Dogs never looked like they were judging you. They just happily accepted whatever you gave them. Cats, on the other hand, always seemed to have... expectations.

"What?" he snapped irritably at the little cat.

His question seemed to dispel its little pique with him and apparently he was instantly forgiven. With a squeak, it came forward to begin contentedly rubbing its face against his ankle, purring loudly. With an exasperated sigh, Nick bent down and scooped the cat up and carried it to the kitchen, to get something for both of them to eat (not the same something).

Later, he was lying, sprawled out on the couch, watching some black and white movie, with entirely too much talking and not nearly enough action. He was half dozing and the little cat was curled up on his chest, sleeping blissfully and he had to admit that he did find its warm, little weight rather comforting. You couldn't do this with a dog, well, not a real dog anyway. And in Nick's mind those little, two-pound, fashion accessories, so currently popular with the anorexic Hollywood starlets, definitely did not qualify as 'real' dogs.

When he finally went to bed an hour later, the little cat trotted along behind him. It spent the night quite comfortably, asleep on the empty side of his double bed.

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The next evening, as Nick was coming in to the lab for the night, he stopped by the front desk to pick up his messages. The secretary, Judy, handed him a large, inter-departmental mail envelope. Opening it, he saw that it was the toxicology report for Jenna Carlyle.

This report showed that her blood had tested positive for Valium and in a fairly high dose. It wasn't a high enough dose to have killed her, but it was definitely high enough to have incapacitated her. Granted this didn't prove that she was murdered. She could have taken the Valium herself, to ease her death. Or her killer could have used it to subdue her. It would explain why there was no sign of a struggle. And Nick hadn't found any prescription bottles in Jenna's apartment.

"Stokes!"

Nick stopped in the hall and turned to see Conrad Ecklie standing in the doorway of his office. The assistant director of the lab gestured for Nick to approach him.

"A word with you, please," he said soberly.

The Texan gave a silent, inward groan as he started back the way he'd just come. Great, just the person I want to see at the start of my shift, he thought, irritated. Entering Ecklie's office, Nick sat down in one of the two chairs that sat across from the big desk.

Ecklie took his own seat behind the desk and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desktop. "I just got off the phone with the sheriff..."

The AD paused for a moment, as though waiting for the other man to be impressed or show some interest. When his words were met with only a blank stare, Ecklie continued, "The sheriff is concerned about Graveyard's current backlog of cases. He's especially concerned that perhaps you're spending too much time on cases that should already be closed. Why is the Carlyle Case still open? It's a suicide, close the case and move on."

"With all due respect, Conrad, I disagree. I don't think it is a suicide," Nick said.

"And why do you say that?"

"There are a few things that I don't think add up. I don't think we can say anything definite about this case yet. I haven't even gotten back most of the results from the evidence I put through the labs. I did get the tox report back, which showed that Je- the victim had Valium in her system. I didn't find any prescription bottles in the apartment."

"She could have gotten the drug illegally on the street."

"Right, 'cause if she's turning tricks, she must be doing illegal drugs, too," Nick said, a note of challenge in his voice.

Ecklie wisely chose to ignore the bait. "I talked to Sophia. She said she didn't see anything that led her to believe that it was anything but a suicide."

"You talked to Sophia without me?"

"Look, Nick, I appreciate and admire your dedication to your job," Ecklie said, his tone blatantly insincere. "But a good CSI recognizes when a case is exactly what it appears to be. Not every case is a puzzle. Sometimes we catch a break and it's open and shut. When we come across these cases, we should go with the evidence and not create unnecessary work for ourselves."

"Yes, sir, I understand that, but I don't think this is one of those cases."

"Well, be that as it may, the sheriff, and I, disagree. The case is closed, end of discussion. Now, go and meet with your supervisor. I've already explained the situation to Grissom. He should have a new case for you."

Without another word, Nick stood and left the office. As he was passing the DNA lab, on his way to Grissom's office, he was stopped again. This time, it was Wendy who called out to him. He stopped and entered the lab.

"I've got the results from your blood tests," the brunette said, handing him a manila folder. "The blood on the razor blade, as well as the blood in the bath water, was all Jenna Carlyle's, no surprise there. The part where it gets interesting is the male DNA. The skin cells on the man's razor, the hairs from the bed and the semen from the bed, all came from the same man. I had a little extra time, so I ran his profile through CODIS. I got a hit."

Opening the folder, Nick found the CODIS printout right on top. He looked back up at Wendy. "Are you sure about this?" he asked.

"Yeah, I ran it twice. It seems that His Honor sowed a few wild oats in his college days. Most people don't realize it, but public nudity is considered a sexual offense. DNA samples are automatically collected upon arrest."

Looking down at the folder, he read the name again, Judge Daniel Markham. He was a county appellate judge. Nick had been in the man's courtroom before. Nick knew that the man was married. He also knew, as most everyone in Vegas did, that he was heavily campaigning for the gubernatorial race in November. Having it discovered that he'd been sleeping with a hooker, especially a now-dead hooker, would not look good for that campaign. Even if he was innocent and never formally charged, the untimely and unseemly investigation alone, would most likely cost him the election.

"Well, I guess this explains why the sheriff just ordered Ecklie to declare the case a suicide and close it," Nick said.

"Yep, that would about do it," Wendy agreed.

"Were you able to salvage any viable prints from the razor blade?"

"I managed to save on, but it was a partial, so I don't know how truly viable it was. I sent it over to the print lab."

"Good, thanks, Wendy."

To be continued...