One more chapter after this, and that one will get it all tied up nicely with a bow on top for you. Thanks for the reviews.
(H/C)
"There are crimes of which the motive is want . . . But want is not the sole incentive to crime . . . The greatest crimes are caused by excess and not by necessity."
Aristotle
(H/C)
Horatio's mind was wandering as he aimed the Hummer toward the Mitchell's house once again. The more tired he got, the harder it was to focus. The case, think of the case. As much as he knew the rest of his life was collapsing around him these days, there was nothing he could do about it, but he still could do his job. That was the one area where he could still make a difference.
What hadn't he thought of? He had to make sure he wasn't missing that vital link, wherever it was. He knew he was distracted, but he couldn't let it affect his work.
Sailboats. Many of them, including Belle, had backup engines for use if absolutely needed, so it wasn't out of reason for the shells to have had traces of high-octane fuel, but that seemed to point to the perp having a marine connection, too. The four friends Winslow mentioned who shared his interest in boats had all checked out absolutely clean with excellent alibis, including the best friend implicated in the anonymous note. Had he missed something with them? Was Winslow forgetting someone?
The handgun. Finding the handgun would be a big step, and he'd combed the neighborhood dumpsters and drains thoroughly, but it wasn't there. He couldn't blame Speed for not checking under the bushes thoroughly; Horatio himself hadn't thought of that until last night. How much else hadn't he thought of? So much evidence had been in the house and nothing visible outside; it had been an easy mistake for Speed to make – if it had been a mistake. They had to find that gun. The handgun, even though it wasn't the murder weapon, was much more likely to lead them to a name. Any name would at least be a new lead. The shotgun had been useless in that regard. It had originally been purchased decades ago by a man now dead who lived in another state and had no ties to anyone in that neighborhood that Horatio could turn up. Older weapons especially could often change hands privately. It was probably several people removed from the original owner at this point, and there was no way at all to trace private deals, especially older ones before the paperwork got so insistent. Winslow couldn't identify it from a picture. Several of his acquaintances had guns, but he didn't specifically remember this one. Nothing remarkable about it, really, just an older shotgun. It was definitely the murder weapon, even had some blood and tissue on the end of the barrel, but there was no useful name attached. Horatio thought that the killer had actually walked up to Angelina after blowing her face off and made sure to get some tissue on the barrel, the better to implicate Winslow when the gun was planted on Belle.
For just a moment, his mother's face flashed before his eyes, then changing into Calleigh's, just like his nightmare last night. He closed his eyes briefly, fortunately at a stoplight, and visualized both of them alive. He was practiced enough at this technique now that he could fairly quickly get rid of the images. Thanks to Calleigh.
Calleigh. Warm, alive, full of fire. He'd hurt her, he knew, and he hadn't wanted to. No, he wasn't going to let himself think of Calleigh. Too distracting and too nonproductive at the moment. Thinking of Calleigh couldn't help him.
The case, Horatio. Do your job. Focus.
Angelina Mitchell always dusted and vacuumed on Sunday afternoon, according to Winslow. Yet she hadn't the day of the murder. She wasn't murdered until around 11:00 p.m. Why had she departed from schedule? On the other hand, maybe she had lied to about her usual schedule to Winslow, who admitted he wasn't around many Sundays. Maybe her lover had had to change their usual rendezvous for some reason. Maybe the note had lied about the usual time of their trysts and picked late Sunday evening for the noise cover. Probably he had spent the whole day with her, taking time to get her relaxed and off guard before drugging her when they ate that evening. She had been heavily sedated at the time of her death. The lover was a foregone conclusion at this point and almost certainly was also the killer. They just needed a name.
He felt more sorry for Winslow Mitchell every time he saw him, and they'd had so many discussions by now with Horatio's frenetic activity on this case that the security guards at the holding cells were almost ready to give Horatio a key to the cell himself. Winslow blamed himself for Angelina's murder. Not only had he failed to go all the way up to the house Sunday night, where he might have met her killer, but he had obviously, from his point of view, failed her anyway as a husband, since she had found a lover. No, don't get sidetracked feeling sorry for Winslow. That won't help you, either, Horatio.
Focus. Stick with the case. You still have to do your job. That's the only thing you can do right now.
Had the killer been waiting somewhere watching for Winslow to approach the neighborhood? He might have wanted to make sure his note worked before actually committing the murder. No point in planting evidence on Belle if Winslow hadn't had a hole in his alibi. Angelina would have been drugged already by that point. The killer, like Mrs. Sampson, was probably watching from shadows somewhere. Knowing Winslow was around and had left again, he had gone back to the house and waited for the regularly scheduled noise disturbance to kill Angelina.
He'd made a mistake there, though. Winslow's timetable was far too tight to do everything involved with this murder and check in and out of the port when he did. The killer had misjudged him. Maybe he thought Winslow would drive around a while after he left the neighborhood, or more likely, he just wasn't thinking like a CSI.
Unlike Horatio, who should be thinking like a CSI and was having trouble with it. Focus. He couldn't let himself miss anything on this case just because of distractions.
He pulled up at the house, and one of the neighbors across the road waved to him. Horatio waved back. Almost everyone on the block knew him by now. Instead of going inside, he started around the yard, beginning with the bushes in back on the theory that the killer wouldn't have wanted to risk being seen exiting the front door. Unexpectedly, he struck gold almost immediately. The handgun was under the bush immediately outside the back door, and it was buried in the mulch with just enough showing to catch the eye of someone looking in the mulch. Horatio snapped on gloves and unearthed it. A 9-mm, fairly new, silencer attached, probably wiped down for fingerprints, but it might give him the one thing all his work on this investigation hadn't turned up yet: A name. Hopes rising a bit, he drove back to CSI.
(H/C)
When Calleigh got back to CSI, Eric was heading down to Ballistics. "Looking for me?"
"Yeah. I had the lover brought in, like you asked. Also the judge again, just to annoy him if nothing else."
Calleigh grinned. "Good thinking. I want to talk to him again. Even though I found a suspicious deposit in her account when I finished up the bank records search, there's no corresponding withdrawal in his."
"Maybe he's just smarter than she is at hiding it. I started on her while you were gone – where were you anyway?"
"I went out with Alexx for coffee," Calleigh replied, and her eyes dared him to comment.
He wasn't that brave. "Anyway, today, she admits that she was bought off and says the judge left for an hour that night. That might not be true, either. We know now she's a liar."
"Or maybe they both are. I wouldn't vote for him in a race against a lot of criminals I've met."
Eric grinned. "Me neither. So, let's go talk to these liars. They're in separate witness rooms, just waiting for you."
"Lead the way," Calleigh replied. "We'll take Lucia first. The judge can cool his heels." She followed Eric, but part of her mind was still fretting over Horatio.
(H/C)
Tripp met Horatio in the parking lot. "So, who is it we're going to see?"
"Steven Harris. He lives several streets from the Mitchells. Had you talked to him?" Tripp shook his head. "He is the registered owner of the handgun used in the murder – or after the murder. No fingerprints. Ballistics match. The gun was buried in mulch at the house."
"Been busy this morning," Tripp remarked as the Hummer headed out.
"Yes, I have. This could be the big break on this one. Winslow doesn't think he's the lover, but of course, he has trouble believing it of anybody he knows. I've pointed out that it has to be someone he knows; there's just too much knowledge of the neighborhood there. He'd still rather have it be a stranger, though."
"Anybody would," Tripp grunted. He eyed Horatio as the Hummer prowled its restless way through the streets. "You sleeping okay, H?"
Horatio hesitated. "Not really," he replied finally. No point in adding Tripp to the list of people he was being forced to lie to these days.
"Calleigh still mad?"
"Probably," Horatio said. "I can't blame her."
Tripp studied him further. Horatio's replies, while accurate, were clipped. He obviously didn't want to discuss it, so Tripp did the one thing his friend had known he would. He simply dropped the subject, and Horatio gave him a half smile a few minutes later at a stoplight.
"Thanks."
"Anytime."
On they drove in silence, but the silence was a comfortable one.
(H/C)
Calleigh faced the judge's lover, a Hispanic woman wearing a slinky leather dress and enough eye shadow to paint a room. Eric, watching from the sidelines, couldn't help comparing the two of them. The gaudy but exaggerated advertisement versus the true article. Horatio was a lucky man.
"So, Lucia, if you accepted a payoff for a false alibi, why are you now admitting it?"
"I started feeling guilty," she said.
Calleigh leaned over the table, closing the distance. "You've got multiple arrests for prostitution before the judge 'bought' you full-time. You've had four marriages and God only knows how many lovers. You've had two children removed by the state, and you have no part at all in their lives, not even seeking supervised visitation. And you expect us to believe that lying to the police for a price is the one thing that suddenly made you develop a conscience?"
Lucia stuck her lip out in a stubborn pout. "I mean, she was murdered. I shouldn't lie for that."
"You did. If you accepted a payoff for alibi, even if you recant, at the moment you accepted it, you became an accessory to murder. That's a felony. We're processing a warrant right now, and with your bank account records and your conflicting statements, we have a cast-iron case for that. You're only hope is to take the man down with you. Who paid you off? Was it the judge or someone else?"
Lucia stared at her in sullen silence.
"You won't get that money, Lucia," Calleigh pointed out. "You can't profit from a crime. You'll be in jail, and even when you get out, those funds will have been frozen. You're not getting a payoff for this, not one you'll have a chance to enjoy."
The thought of wasted money got to her. "It won't still be in the bank later?" Eric snorted. Did people really expect the banks to keep paying interest on their admitted felony payoffs throughout their jail terms? Lucia's assets were clearly in areas besides intelligence.
"No," Calleigh replied. "The courts will determine the final financial details, but your account will be frozen. In fact, it probably already is. You couldn't walk from here – assuming we'd let you – straight to an ATM and get anything."
Lucia crumpled. "It wasn't the judge. It was his main rival in the election."
Calleigh sat back, taking out a notepad. "Now, we're getting somewhere. You might even get a deal made with the prosecutor. It won't let you keep the money, but it might cut your jail time."
"Why did you alibi the judge at first?" Eric asked.
"He said to tell that story first, then change it a few days later, only say the judge had been the one to pay me. He said the media story would be more effective and remembered that way. Two breaking headline stories instead of one. He said everybody would remember the judge in the campaign and would even be biased against the replacement candidate, so he'd win." She stuck her lip out again. "But he said I'd be able to keep the money, and he never said I'd have to go to jail. I never even got to spend it."
Eric spoke up from the end of the room. "Too bad."
(H/C)
The woman who opened the door to the Harris' house caught both men's attention immediately. Not that she was especially beautiful, but the eyes had a coldness that was rare, one they'd seen on a few outstanding criminals over the years. "Yes? What can I do for you, officers?"
"Mrs. Harris?" She nodded. "Is your husband home?"
"No, he isn't," she replied. "Can I help you with something?"
"Your husband have guns?" Tripp asked.
"Yes, several."
"This one?" Horatio showed her a picture of the 9-mm from the bush.
"Yes, I think he does have that one. I haven't seen it in a few days, though." She stepped back. "Come in, gentlemen. Have a seat."
Horatio and Tripp exchanged surreptitious glances as they sat down. This woman was reading from a mental script, one she had prepared. She'd expected them. "Mrs. Harris, where was your husband on Sunday night a week ago?"
"He was home except for one hour. He went out right around 12:30 and came back at 1:30. He was just taking a walk, he said, because he couldn't sleep."
"Have you ever had occasion to think he might be cheating on you?"
She laughed, a staged laugh. "I'm not blind. Yes, I knew he was cheating on me, but I wasn't sure who the woman was. It didn't really matter. I have his money; she can have him."
"Was his attitude strange at all when he returned home?"
"He seemed excited. Keyed up, somehow. He still didn't get to sleep for several hours. I assumed he had been out with her."
"Would it surprise you to learn that his gun was involved in a murder on that Sunday?"
She blinked her eyes in surprise. Horatio and Tripp, rating the performance, gave her high marks. "Well, I hadn't thought . . . you mean that Mitchell woman?"
That Mitchell woman, Horatio thought. There was real animosity there. She should have reconsidered that line in her script, or maybe it had slipped in. "Yes, this gun was involved at that scene. However, would it surprise you to also learn that Angelina" – he emphasized the name, and she flinched almost imperceptibly – "was actually murdered around 11:00 and with another gun? Your husband's gun isn't the murder weapon, and you yourself just gave him an excellent alibi for the time of the actual murder. That is, unless you want to reconsider your story."
They could see the mental wheels turning frantically. She had been knocked off her script, and she was much less talented at improvisation than at calculated fiction. "Why did you want to frame your husband for Angelina's murder, Mrs. Harris? Revenge? Money?"
She switched into self preservation. "I didn't kill her."
"No, you didn't, but you were there," Horatio insisted. "You came in to do it, and she was already dead. You made two big mistakes, though. First was kicking the shotgun shells under the bed – that was a fit of anger, and that action had a woman's marks all over it. A man would have reacted differently, even mad. Someone as smart as you are but not knocked off game plan and not angry would have picked up the shells and taken them away. You like to plan everything out, don't you, and aren't as good at thinking on your feet. Your second mistake was going ahead and trying to frame your husband anyway. Didn't you think we could tell which gun fired the fatal shot and which one was used first?"
"How could anybody tell anything from that?" she snapped. "She didn't even have a face left."
Tripp stood, shaking out the cuffs. "You're under arrest."
"For what?" she said. "Is shooting a dead body a crime?"
"Interfering with an investigation is," Horatio pointed out, "and I'm sure we can come up with several other things once we start thinking about it." She closed up at that and was obviously starting to plan her defense during the interval while the squad car Horatio called came to get her. After she had left, Tripp looked over at Horatio.
"So, we come here to question him and get her, but that 9-mm still didn't lead us to the real murderer."
Horatio was studying pictures on the wall, pictures of airplanes. "On the contrary, I think it did."
(H/C)
Steven Harris stared at the interview table. "What is going on here? I get home to find the cops on my doorstep and my wife under arrest."
"Actually, we never said we wanted to talk to you about your wife's involvement in this case. We just said we wanted to talk to you about this case." Horatio paced around behind the man's chair, deliberately looming over him. "I think, when we get a warrant for your DNA, that we will discover you had sex with Angelina Mitchell shortly before she was murdered."
"Doesn't mean I killed her," Steven replied. "Come on, they're old friends. I've known Winslow and Angelina for years, since he was in the military."
Horatio jumped on that. "Including the time he was presumed dead? Did you comfort his wife? Or was she just a girlfriend then?"
Steven wasn't as good at answers as his wife was. She'd prepared to talk to the police; he hadn't expected he'd have to. "We were friends, yes."
"Close friends?" Tripp suggested. "An inch or less?"
"Okay, so I'd had an affair with her for years, and yes, it started when Winslow was missing. That still doesn't mean I killed her."
"You own a private plane, right?"
"Right." He relaxed at that.
"And planes, like many boats, use high-octane fuel for high performance."
"So?" He obviously didn't know about the fuel traces on the shells.
"And you also are a great nephew of Charles Ponder, who owned a certain shotgun years ago. You privately acquired it from another relative. Your wife confirms this; I just asked her right before I came in here. She's a most cooperative witness. Ironic, that she was trying to frame you for a murder that you had already actually committed. You'll get the long sentence, Steven, and she'll get the house and your jointly held funds and assets."
Steven broke down there. "She's selling me out?"
"She's telling us the truth for once, but yes, she'll profit from it. You owned the shotgun that actually was the murder weapon, the gun that was then planted on Belle. Also, your fingerprints will probably match the few we found on Belle that weren't Winslow's. You wiped down the major surfaces, but you missed a few spots." Steven looked up at him, silent, but he realized now this was hopeless. "The thing I don't understand," Horatio continued, "is what you have against Winslow. Why frame him for Angelina's murder? You went to a lot of effort over it. Framing him was the main point of killing her, I think. Why?"
Steven clenched his hands together on the table. "You should have heard her. For years, I was loving her, I was there for her, and all she could talk about was what a good man he was. She felt guilty – not guilty enough to stop, but she still felt guilty. Winslow could do this. Winslow could do that. Winslow was honest, kind, smart, and so many other things he was one step below Superman. I was tired of it and tired of her, but she didn't want to quit. She wanted to love me but admire him. I just wanted to prove that there was at least one thing I could do better than he could."
Horatio looked at him coldly. "I hope you're satisfied," he stated. He nodded to the officer in the corner. "Book him."
Horatio turned and walked out the room. He had solved the case. In spite of all the other pressures he'd been under the last few days, he had managed to hold it together and do his job. A haze of tiredness settled over him like a blanket, and he shook it off, grabbing onto one thought like a lifeline. Calleigh. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted – no, needed – Calleigh. He reached for his cell phone.
