Chapter XIX

The Morning After

Bryce Luken shoved three twenties at the cabbie and started to stumble away before he got the change. The desert sun's brightness hurt his eyes, his mouth felt like an overflowing ashtray that had been soaked in cheap beer and there was a very bad high school marching band tuning their instruments to some god-awful off-key notes in his head. All in all, he wanted to fall face down on his too-firm motel bed and sleep for the next six months. They had to be at the lecture-brunch in an hour. As if he could think about claims adjustment with the mother of all hangovers. Why they had conventions in Vegas, he had no idea, because he wasn't going to be taking anything but fuzzy memories back from this one. Good memories, Bryce had to admit, but they were fuzzy nonetheless. He was never, no matter how smoking hot the girl was, going to mix beer and tequila shooters again. Not to mention he would never touch any drink that was bright purple and called 'Haze' even if it was the house special. He was so miserable he didn't even stop to chat up the two bottle blondes in very small bikinis catching morning rays by the pool.

He dug in his pockets, looking for the room key and hoped to God he hadn't dropped it on What's-Her-Name's floor. Luckily he hadn't but since the door to his room was ajar, he didn't need it anyway. He figured Preston's evening entertainment had probably left, but just in case, he clapped one hand over his eyes as he approached the door.

"PRESSIE!" He nudged the door open with his foot. "Press, you pansy ass, cover up I'm coming in!" At this point he really hoped Preston's pickup had left because there was nothing more awkward than naked, hung over introductions and he'd already done that this morning as it was. No one answered so he stepped in and uncovered his eyes. "Preston?" It took longer than usual for his bleary and bloodshot eyes to adjust to the dim interior of the room. "Move it, Abernathy, we have to be back at the Monaco in, like, an hour."

Bryce stepped over, intent on kicking the bed, and his eyes finally focused. At first his brain didn't understand what it was seeing. At first he thought that maybe he was still completely and hideously drunk and maybe even high. Then the sickening truth settled in on Bryce.

"OH GOD! OH JESUS!"

He turned away and stumbled backwards on his own feet until his back hit the door. He pivoted clumsily, tried to run and made the mistake of looking over his shoulder. It hit him like a sucker punch to the gut and everything that he hadn't already thrown up came barreling back up his throat. The rank mixture of beer and bile made a loud liquid splash on the clean cement walkway. Bryce dragged his wrist across his mouth, and shaken to the core, he straightened up again.

"Christ, Jesus Christ." His voice was hoarse and he started to yell. "HELP! FUCKING HELP! OH GOD, Someone call 9-1-1!"

The tang of blood, maybe leaking out of the wide open door and into the breeze or from his fresh memory, hit him again and he fell against the pool's stylized wrought iron fence and he vomited again. His sides spasmed painfully and his throat burned from the bile that had come forth yet again. The bikini-clad girls jumped away, disgusted, but one, nevertheless, picked up her cell phone to make the emergency phone call. Bryce was bent double over the rail. He had tears, half from vomiting, and half from horror, dripping down his ashen pale face.

"Oh God, Press."

Preston's blood. Jesus, it was everywhere. Disgusted, he retched again only to dry heave and gag painfully. "I'm sorry, Preston. I'm so so sorry."

Bryce's words dissolved into a stupefied and shocked silence as he slid down the fence to his knees and then sat on the concrete with his knees drawn up to his chest.

Catherine let the hot water flow over her, easing the kinks and aches that came from working on her hands and knees, bent over double, squatted down and every other uncomfortable position she got herself into doing her job for the last ten hours. It hadn't been a particularly nasty scene, she wasn't using lemons to kill the stench of death. Catherine was letting the water wash away the hurt in her heart.

It hadn't been another device killing. It had just been a baby. A girl no older than Lindsey, dead in a pool of her own blood. She understood why Brass had called them in on the suspicion. The girl had bled between her legs. It had been a motel-birth gone horribly wrong. It was happening more and more. Teenage girls afraid to tell their parents that they were pregnant and would hide the pregnancies as long as possible. Some were incredibly adept at that. Then they would run away and have the baby on the streets, or if they were lucky, a pay-by-the hour motel. Catherine was no doctor, and could not say what had gone wrong. She was a CSI and she had a dead girl with her dead infant son, and someone who had fled the scene.

The showers steam rose around her while the water beat down on her head and shoulders, slicking her red-blonde hair down to her scalp. She and Greg had worked the case while Sara had run evidence back to the lab and split her time between it and the Device Cases. There was very little to report on either of the cases. Her shift was winding down and after she finished her shower, she was leaving. She desperately needed to see Lindsey. Just to make sure that her daughter was healthy and whole and not pregnant. She wanted to see Lindsey graduate High School, then College and get married and then one day, one day, way far into the future, have children. Lindsey was too damn young to be a mother and Catherine was way too damn young to be a grandmother. She braced her hands against the wall, stared blankly down at the tile floor and watched the soap and water swirled around the drain.

Who had been there for that teenager? The young woman who'd had long corn silk blonde hair and freckles? Had the boy who'd fathered her son been there? Had he taken responsibility? Had the two of them come to Vegas to start their young lives all over again? Did her mother know? God, she didn't envy Brass, who would have to tell some woman that her child and grandchild were dead. Dead and left alone in some sleaze ball room without dignity, without love. She - they hadn't identified her yet - had been well taken care of. Her hair had been cut and styled and she had a manicure. For a woman giving birth, she hadn't been showing much. Judging from the ACE bandages Catherine had found in the room, the girl had been starving herself and wrapping her stomach to keep herself slender. A few stray tears mixed with the shower water before Catherine turned off the tap and grabbed her towel.

Because she, like every other woman who was employed by the Las Vegas Police Department, used a co-ed locker room, Catherine dressed in the women's shower and restroom. Panties and matching bra, socks, jeans, all from her locker, and an LVPD tee-shirt. She was about to pull the gray and navy blue shirt over her head when she saw the gigantic stain of unknown origins on the front of it. It looked like it was grease or oil of some kind, smelled as if it belonged in a trash can and there was no way she was putting it on. Even if she was just driving Lindsey to school, she was not wearing that. Clad in everything but a shirt, Catherine headed back towards the locker room and hoped that Greg wasn't lurking around. The last thing he needed was a free show. Ruined shirt in her hands, she turned the corner and was disappointed to see that the locker room was not empty.

Sara, with her locker open, was talking to someone that Catherine couldn't see.

"It's just been a long day. First there was UNLV then when I came in to the lab, Queen Bee Catherine jumped me about cutting my finger."

The other voice, which Catherine quickly and easily identified as Sofia, piped up quickly. "Did you get those test results back?"

Sara, back still turned to Catherine, sighed. "Yeah, Wendy rushed it for me, it all came back negative."

Sofia, whose view of Catherine was blocked by Sara, spoke again. "You know you need to get tested again."

Sara mumbled an affirmative reply and for a moment there was silence. Though Catherine couldn't see Sara's face and couldn't really see Sofia at all, she had a feeling that they were looking at each other, speaking silently.

Sofia broke the silence. "All right, you are coming out with me. We can drink good beer, bitch about women and you can buy me something slightly higher class than a burrito."

Sara laughed, the sound was forced and a little bit brittle. "Are you going to grill me about what happened today?"

Hell yes, Catherine would have, and intended to, but not over breakfast. Sofia only chuckled, "If you want to vent, feel free to vent. C'mon, Sara, we've both put in Hellish nights and I, for one, could use a morning off."ﾝ

Sara shrugged, "Well I-"

Catherine's cellphone, hooked to her clean pants, chose that time to ring. All three women turned to the sound, which was quickly echoed by two nearly identical electronic beeps.

Sara was quickest on the draw. She flipped open her phone, dialed and was on the line with dispatch before Catherine had even moved a finger.

Sofia only blinked. "Care to cover up there, Catherine?"

Catherine opened her mouth to say something, but was beaten to the punch by the plastic clack of Sara closing her phone. How do you feel about a rain check, Sofia. That was Brass, another body and this one definitely matches the M.O." Sara turned her head, but not around far enough to see Catherine getting a clean shirt from her nearby locker, "Single d.b. Found in a motel room, lots of blood on the walls and a significant amount between his legs." She turned back to Sofia, "This is turning serial."

Sofia blew out a puff of exasperated breath, nodded and turned, "We'll catch lunch after we clear the scene, you're driving."

Catherine watched the two women walk out and wondered as she strapped her holster back on, exactly what was going on between Sara Sidle and Sofia Curtis. No matter what it was, she decided after a moment, it was going to piss her off.