“He was a good man.”

“Yeah. Too damn few of those around. I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” said Grissom.

A radio car found Paul Fairwick’s car, parked two blocks away from where he lived. Nick and Riley took the call.

“Driver’s-side window is smashed,” said Nick as they walked up.

“More glass in than out,” said Riley. “No blood spatter in the car, though. He wasn’t shot here.”

“No, but I’ll bet this is where he was grabbed. Smash the window for maximum shock value, then stick a gun in his face.”

Nick opened the driver’s door a nd shone a flashlight into the interior. “Keys are still in the ignition. We’re lucky somebody didn’t grab it for a joyride.”

“Whoever took him would have had to put him into another vehicle-probably in the trunk.”

Nick checked the pavement close by. “No tire marks. He didn’t lay down any rubber when he left.”

“Kidnapping someone like that, in a relatively open area, then calmly driving away? Cool customer.”

“Yeah. Ligature marks on the body indicated he was bound-so he must have driven Fairwick to another location and tied him up before killing him.”

“And adding a little surprise to his box of Cracker Jacks,” Riley murmured. “Let’s get this back to the lab-maybe it can tell us why Fairwick parked two blocks away instead of in the lot of his own building.”

Nick stood back and studied the car while Riley called for the tow vehicle. It was a different color, a different year, but the make of the car was the same as Warrick’s.

Nick had helped process that vehicle. It was the car that Warrrick had been shot in, the car that he would have died in if Grissom hadn’t been at the scene. Instead, he’d died cradled in Grissom’s arms.

They ’d caught the killer. Nick had pointed a loaded gun at the man’s face while the killer shouted at him to shoot-and he had, into the ground. It hadn’t been an act of kindness-the killer was an undersheriff, and Nick knew that his existence in prison would be one of isolation and constant fear.

Nick wasn’t going to help Warrick’s murderer commit suicide. Not unless it took a long, long time.

“Truck’ll be here in ten,” said Riley. She noticed the look on his face and added, “You okay?”

“Fine.” Nick shook his head, forced a smile. “Just thinking about another case.”

“Bad one?”

“Yeah,” said Nick. “About as bad as it gets.”

Grissom studied the twelve letters laid out before him on the light table. According to Stancroft, they had arrived over the last two months, one a week at first and then two.

The envelopes and the stationery the letters were printed on were all identical. Each had been mailed from within Las Vegas itself. Each letter was a single page, double-spaced and printed by an inkjet. The content was an almost mathematical progression of obsession, the first only hinting at it and the last practically raving. Despite that, there was a uniformity to them that was chilling-each was almost exactly the same length, each was folded at exactly the same p lace.

He had lifted numerous fingerprints from the envelopes, several of which were unknown-most likely those of postal employees. Fingerprints on the letters themselves were those of Henry Stancroft and Paul Fairwick, the only two people to have read them; it was Fairwick’s job to read the mail, and he apparently passed the letters directly to Stancroft.

The letters made frequent disparaging remarks about the hotel itself and how Athena Jordanson deserved better. The writer insinuated that her safety was at risk and directed blame, again, at the hotel. The logic was faulty, but the intention was clear: if anything bad were to befall Athena Jordanson, it would ultimately be the hotel that was at fault.

One passage in particular, from the very latest letter, Grissom found especially disturbing: I pity you, in your glass castle in the sky. You think yourself immune to all the ills that befall us ordinary drones, toiling in our endless busywork while you play and sing. I used to think that you were a goddess, that the divinity of your voice was there to lift us up; but now it only serves to remind me of everything we’ll never have, of just how special you are and how unremarkable the rest of us will always be. Living in that penthouse, looking down upon all of us, we must see m no more than scurrying insects to you…”

Scurrying insects was underlined. It was the only phrase in any of the letters that was.

When they got Paul Fairwick’s car back to the lab, Nick processed the inside of the car, while Riley did the outside.

The first thing he found was a crumpled piece of paper on the floor. He flattened it out and read it: it was a single photocopied sheet informing the residents of 4359 Carleton that due to the parking lot being resurfaced, they would have to find alternate arrangements for the next forty-eight hours. A hand-drawn map suggested spots along the same block the car had been found in.

“I didn’t notice any roadwork equipment when we drove past Fairwick’s apartment building, did you?” asked Nick.

“No-but I did notice a security camera over the front door. Could be the killer was redirecting his target to a more suitable stalking ground, one where he wouldn’t be observed.”

“Like the spot where he was attacked. That suggests he was actually lying in wait.”

“There were no obvious hiding places on that block, which confirms he was in a vehicle,” said Riley. “So far, that’s about all we’ve got.”

The tiny white dog cradled in Jill Leilani’s arms stared at Catherine with wide brown eyes. It seemed perfectly happy to stay where it was, though the same couldn’t be said about its owner. Leilani shifted in her seat uncomfortably, glancing around the interview room as if she might bolt at any moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair a wild, scraggly mess. She was dressed in club clothes: a short skirt, tiny top, and high-heeled shoes.

“So, Jill,” said Catherine, “how’s that plan to kick meth going?”

“Yeah, okay, maybe not so good,” she mumbled. “But that’s my problem, right? I mean, I don’t have any or anything.”

“Not now. But you’ve got a nice deal lined up for a steady supply, right? Straight from the source.”

Her hands stroked the dog compulsively. “No. No, that’s not true.”

“Sure it is. Hanging around with Hal Kanamu got you a heavy habit, but then you and Hal had a falling out. You needed a new supplier, and you found it in Aaron Tyford and Diego Molinez. Didn’t you?”

“No, no, no. I score on the street, same as anyone else, it’s not hard to find, so much stuff moves through Vegas it’s a hub it all comes up the interstate from Mexico and-”

Catherine cut her off. “No, Jill. The economy’s bad, and you only work part-time at the Shore-mont. Not enough to pay for what you need. So you decided to do a little moonlighting, right? Even a meth cook can use a maid.”

“I-I don’t-”

“It was the little folds you put in the end of the toilet paper that tipped me off. Habit, right? And probably more than a touch of meth-induced obsessive-compulsive behavior. We found towels from the Shoremont in the trash, too.”

“That-that doesn’t prove anything, so what, so what-”

“Maybe not. But we found traces of sexual fluid from three different people on a mattress at the meth lab-DNA from two males and a woman. Aaron Tyford and Diego Molinez are already in jail.” She paused. “As for the female DNA-I’m pretty sure it’s going to be a match to yours. Isn’t it?”

Her bravado broke. Tears began to spill silently down her face. “Yeah. Not enough they made me clean up their damn lab. They wanted other things, too.”

“And how did Hal feel about all this?”

“He didn’t know. I was ashamed to tell him, so I kept it a secret. That’s the real reason we stopped hanging around together-I mean, at first it was because I was trying to get clean, and then it was because I didn’t want him to know what I was doing. Lester knew, but I made him promise not to tell.”