Chapter Six
The Motives
Col Mustard and Scarlet
Warrick sipped tea from a Styrofoam cup as he stood next to the water fountain in the hallway and watched Grissom escort Dicky Burton down the hall toward the supervisor's office. Nick walked up next to him, bent at the water fountain taking a long drink. When he stood up, he caught a glimpse of the faded movie star walking into Grissoms office, just before Gil closed the door.
"You ever have seen any of his movies?" Nick asked Warrick, running the back of his hand against his lips.
"I saw that James Bond rip off thing he did."
"Oh, yeah, I saw that one. It was a musical right? I'd forgotten about it."
Warrick huffed out a laugh "Wish I had."
The quick click of heels echoing down the hall stopped Nick from saying anything else. A rail thin brunette in stilettos sauntered down the hall, smiling at the uniformed officers and lab techs that stopped in their tracks to look at her. Angela winked at a rookie officer, and seemed about to approach him before she caught sight of Nick, and changed her path, calling out "Hey!" to him, with a bright flirty smile on her bright red lipsticked lips. She lifted her arm, waving to him with wiggling fingers.
"Oh no," Nick muttered.
"That her?" Warrick asked, studying the girl as she headed toward them.
"Yeah," Nick put his hands on his waist, and glanced around, looking for a quick exit.
"No wonder Griss told me to interview her."
Nick shifted his head, looking at his friend. "Really? Griss told you to take her?"
Warrick nodded slowly.
Nick patted Warrick on the shoulder, wished him good luck, and disappeared down another hallway.
To his right, Warrick heard the clack of the stilettos stop abruptly as Angela watched Nick leave. Warrick turned his head toward her, seeing her up close for the first time.
Easily recognizable from her photo, but she'd changed out of the formless gray overalls into a strapless black mini dress that was anything but formless.
After a moment, Angela began to head off down the hall she'd seen Nick disappear down; Warrick stopped her with his voice. "Miss Lucas?"
She turned, noticing him for the first time, all thoughts of Nick seemed to disappear from her mind, and she shifted her bag in front of her, bringing her elbows closer together, her cleavage popping. "Yes?" She said sweetly.
"I'm Warrick Brown, I'll be conducting your interview."
She tilted her head, and pointed a finger over her shoulder toward the hall Nick had escaped down, "But what about…?"
"CSI Stokes has other business to attend to. Would you come with me please?"
Around the corner, Archie, Hodges and Henry hung out in the doorway to the Trace Lab, failing in their attempt to appear nonchalant. Angela waggled her fingers at them as she and Warrick passed the doorway. "Hey boys," her voice dripped with seduction.
Archie narrowed his eyes as he watched Angela pass.
"Hey, Warrick," Hodges grabbed Warrick sleeve, then quickly released it catching the look the CSI threw him. "Is she the one Stokes called a barracuda?"
"I know her from somewhere." Archie said.
"She's an actress, maybe she's been in a movie or something…" Warrick offered.
In response, Archie's eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers before he quickly turned away from the group and headed back to his own lab.
--
"So, where's the other guy?" Angela asked, hefting her bag on top of the table. A wet black nose, followed by a white snout pressed against the mesh material that covered one end.
Warrick stared into the bag. "What kind of dog is that?"
"East Highlow Terrier…something like that." Angela gently poked a finger at the dog.
"What's his name?" Warrick asked, wondering if she'd even named the poor dog. She didn't seem too enamored with it.
"Blackie," she said, and turned her attention away from the dog straight to Warrick, ignoring the sharp yap of the dog answering when he heard his name. "Usually I take him out of his carrier, but I'm wearing black, and he'd get white hair all over me."
Warrick suddenly felt very sorry for the dog.
"What's the other guys name?" Angela asked, already tired of the conversation about the dog.
Warrick's eyebrows shot up, the topic of conversation changed so quickly, it took him a moment to catch up. "Who? Oh, Nick, he had another suspect to interview."
"Nick, huh?" She rolled his name around her mouth like she was tasting it on for size.
"Miss," Warrick began, trying to steer the subject away from his friend.
"Wait," Angela had been caught up in Nick's name, she hadn't exactly heard Warrick's other words, "am I a suspect?"
"Yes ma'am. Everyone -"
"Suspected of what?"
Warrick blinked. "Of the murder of your co-worker, Fred Billingsley."
"Oh," she said, her voice full of boredom. "That. I didn't kill him." She said it like that should be the end of the conversation.
Warrick suppressed a groan. Nick had been right; this chick was a piece of work. "We found your fingerprints on the candlestick that caused a head wound on the victim." He purposely left out the part that the head wound was not the cause of death.
"My fingerprints on the candlestick? Well, yeah, I hold it during the show, I threaten Mrs. Peacock with it."
Warrick slipped a print of the photo Nick took of her at the scene out of the file folder in front of him. "Is this your costume?'
"Yep. I hate that dress, it's-"
Warrick cut her off. "This is what you wear during the play?"
"Yes," she drew the word out slowly, as if he were having trouble understanding her.
"You're wearing gloves," he pointed out to her, just as slowly.
"So?"
"So…you shouldn't have left any fingerprints because you're wearing gloves."
Angela opened her mouth to answer, but a rap on the door stopped her. Warrick turned in his chair, expecting Brass or Grissom, but it was Archie's head that popped through the door. Warrick's eyes narrowed and he had the fleeting thought that the building must be on fire for Archie to interrupt an interrogation. "Arch?"
"Hey, Rick, sorry to interrupt, but there's something you need to see." Archie moved his head, motioning for Warrick to join him in the hall.
With a sigh of resignation, Warrick slid his chair back and joined Archie in the hall. "This better be good."
Archie nodded, "Remember how I said I knew her from somewhere? Well, I remembered from where." He handed Warrick a DVD case.
"Rowdy Girls?"
"Check out the pictures on the back."
Warrick turned the case over, and studied the photos of the half naked women. His eyes narrowed when he found the one Archie meant.
"That's our girl."
"Sure is," Archie said with a smile.
--
Grissom sat on his side of the desk, contemplating where to begin. The ageing actor pondered the jars and books on the shelves lining the office, his hands joined behind his back as he peered closer to one specimen he couldn't decipher. "Fascinating, really," Dicky Burton muttered then turned around to glance at Grissom. "Do all you fellows have these…" he turned back to the shelves "whatcamacallits in your offices, or is it just you?"
Grissom closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Mr. Burton," he began.
"I mean, do you read all these?" Dicky tapped the glass jar that housed a creature eternally bathing in formaldehyde. "Call me Dicky," he added as an afterthought.
"Would you not touch those please?" Grissom was growing more impatient by the moment.
With an apologetic shrug of his shoulders, Dicky moved on, turning his attention to a stack of books piled next to the jars and began to slide out one of the thicker books, changed his mind and choose a thinner one instead.
"Mr. Burton, we have a lot to discuss, would you sit down please."
Dicky reluctantly crossed over to the front of Grissoms desk and settled himself into one of the two chairs. He crossed his legs, folded his hands neatly in his lap, and looked to Grissom expectantly. "About Freddie, of course."
"Yes…" Grissom began, again wondering where to begin. He lifted his chin just a little, deciding on his line of questioning. "How long did you know Fred?"
Dicky tiled his head back a little, looking toward the ceiling "Oh, let's see now…" he looked as if the florescent lights would give him the answer, he brought his head back down, looking Grissom in the eye. "About seven months, I suppose…perhaps as many as nine. He contacted me shortly after my birthday…" Grissom glanced down to the file in front of him, Dicky's birthday had been eight months previous. "He was very excited about this play of his, you've no idea. I honestly had never heard of Clue, had to go get one for myself, see what it was all about."
"And then you signed on to join the cast." Grissom prompted.
"No, no I signed on immediately. I got the game to find out what I'd gotten myself into."
"So…" Grissom redirected conversation back to its original path. "You knew the victim for eight months?"
"Yes, about that."
"Never met him before?"
Dicky gave a facial shrug. "Not that I know of… I suppose it's possible that he once asked for an autograph or photo, but, no, I never met him, where'd I know his name."
Gil narrowed his eyes, studying the other man. He believed him.
--
"Your fingerprints?" Warrick asked, settling back into his chair across from Angela, urging her back into his line of questioning.
"What about them?" Angela asked, checking her fingernails for the slightest mar.
Warrick moved his chair in closer to the table; the movement and squeaking of the chair legs on the floor got her attention. One of his hands wrapped around the other, his fingers messaging the back of his other hand and he leaned in. "Why are your fingerprints on the weapon when your character wears gloves?"
Angela sighed deeply, Fred's death was becoming much to boring for her, she decided. "I picked up the candlestick before the show, and moved it to the mantel, so it'd be there when I had to pick it up to threaten Mrs. Peacock with it."
Warrick looked her in the eye, it was a plausible explanation, he had to admit, so he decided to try the surprise tactic. "Tell me about your shoplifting charge."
Angela's mouth fell open. "That was supposed to be sponged from my record."
Warrick would have laughed if it weren't so sad. "The term is expunged, and the charges might have been dropped, but there's still a record of your arrest." Warrick flipped the arrest report around so she could see it. Her eyes widened as she stared at it.
He gave her a moment, then resumed his questioning. "It says you stole a blouse."
"Yeah," she said quietly.
"Why'd they drop the charges?"
She paled, her eyes darting around the room. Warrick thought she might be looking for an escape hatch. After a moment, she moved her gaze to his, and her eyes filled with tears. Very suddenly, Warrick thought, as if she flipped an interior switch, the tears were there, but there was no real emotion behind them. The dog in the bag seemed to pick up on her sniffing and whined twice.
"My daddy promised me there wouldn't be any record. He paid the store, you shouldn't know about it."
"Your daddy?" Warrick asked.
She glanced at her fingers and fidgeted in her seat. There was the real emotion, Warrick thought.
"He's a very powerful man. I'm not supposed to get in trouble anymore."
"Powerful?"
"He has God on his side." Angela sounded as if she was mimicking words she'd heard thousands of times. Warrick's eyebrows shot up and Angela continued. "He's a preacher." Getting no recognition out of Warrick, she explained further. "He's on TV."
An image popped into Warrick's head, a televangelist his grandmother would sometimes watch on Sunday mornings. A portly man who would pace the stage like a riled panther, grasping the microphone with sausage fingers shouting about how Jesus would save your soul, if only you sent in enough money.
"Williamson Lucas is your father?"
Angela nodded. Now that Warrick had broken though her false exterior, he pulled out the big guns.
"So, I guess he doesn't know about this then?" He slid the DVD across the table so it rested in front of her.
Angela looked up, and met his eyes. "Where did you get that! Did you find that in Fred's room?"
Warrick lifted his head in surprise. "Fred knew about this?"
"Yeah. He threatened to tell my daddy."
"What would he have gained by that?"
She sighed deeply. "I wanted to quit that crappy play. The dress was to hot and it was just a stupid idea. And I don't have enough lines to say. Fred threatened to tell my daddy about the DVD so I'd have to stay with the show."
"Your dad sends you money?" Warrick guessed, and Angela nodded. "And that would have stopped had he learned about the DVD." She nodded again and looked at her hands.
"Angela-" he got her attention, "that's motive."
--
"Mr. Burton," Grissom found a topic he thought the actor wouldn't mind. "This part that you're up for-"
"You've heard something? My agent hasn't called me in months…" Dicky sat forward in the chair in his excitement.
"No, you told me about it, at the hotel." Grissom explained, and Dicky deflated back into his seat.
"Ah, yes," Dicky said, remembering "well, I'm not actually up for it, just hoping for an audition."
Grissom nodded once in his understanding. "Wouldn't that have meant leaving the Clue mystery?"
Dicky paused; Grissom could tell he was choosing his words carefully, "Well, I'd prefer to fulfill my contract, obviously."
"Of course."
"So, Fred and I came to an agreement." He paused; swallowing so hard Grissom could see his adam's apple bob. "I would fulfill my contract, and if that meant passing on the TV drama," he held up is hands in a giving up gesture "then so be it."
Grissoms chin lifted just a bit, and his eyes narrowed. "You asked to follow me around very shortly after Fred's death."
"Yes. Yes, I suppose I did." Dicky agreed.
"You didn't waste any time making plans now that you've been released from your contract."
"Well…" Dicky began, and Grissom gave him a moment, but the actor never finished the thought.
"You're agreement with Fred seemed a little one sided, in Fred's favor."
"I wouldn't say that…as I was telling your captain earlier, I was hoping to re-establish my reputation with this job…so actually…the longer the play ran…the better off I was."
Grissom thought that Dicky was remembering the words, as if someone, perhaps the victim, had said them to Dicky as reasons for his staying with the play. "Mr. Burton, did Fred blackmail you into staying with the production?"
Dicky's eyes grew wide for the slightest moment. "Why ever would you say that?"
Grissom didn't answer the question. "Did he?"
"Yes." Dicky sighed deeply. "Told me that if I even went to the audition, that he'd call the producers, tell them I was drinking again, forgetting my lines…. He was going to ruin everything that I'd worked so hard for…and all for some absurd little show that's one step up from dinner theater."
"And either way, you'd have to stay."
Dicky nodded tiredly.
"And now that he's dead, you're free to pursue the audition."
Again, Dicky nodded, and only after a moment passed did he realize what it was Grissom was implying. The color drained out of his face, "I may have wanted him dead, but didn't kill him."
Grissoms eyes narrowed again, not so sure he believed him anymore.
