Nick and Riley canvassed several more spots, and though the information the y gathered was thin and somewhat contradictory, a pattern did begin to emerge. Around a half-dozen homeless people-including the two they were looking for and Gustav Janikov-had disappeared off the street around a month ago. Only Janikov had been seen since, and only briefly.

Rumors abounded: that they’d been kidnapped by a cult, that they’d been rounded up as part of a secret government plan, that they’d been killed and buried in the desert by a gang.

Nick and Riley retired to the diner where the CSIs sometimes ate breakfast to discuss the case over coffee. Riley slid into the booth, pulled off her baseball cap, and tossed it next to her with a sigh.

“Two coffees, please,” Nick told the waitress. “Thanks.”

“Well, what do you think?” asked Riley. “Are we chasing ghosts?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, yeah, the two guys we’re looking for could be dead, but the homeless population might actually be down half a dozen. What’s your gut say?”

She frowned. “Despite the high number of crazies, junkies, and thieves, people on the street tend to look out for one another. I can’t say much for the theories I’ve heard, but I’m starting to believe those people are actually missing.”

“Would fit with your theory about a labor force. Once you’ve lured them into working for you, it probably makes more sense to keep them lock ed up than risk one of them talking.”

“Yeah, which doesn’t say much for their chance of drawing unemployment once the job’s finished.”

The coffee arrived. Nick changed his mind and ordered a Danish as well.

“Janikov was probably his right-hand man,” said Riley. “He had enough freedom to spend a little of his hard-earned cash. The killer trusted him to come back, gave him the job of obtaining the surgical thread.”

“True. If we had a residence to toss, we might be able to come up with where the hypothetical factory is-but that’s kinda hard to do when the people we’re chasing are homeless.”

“Maybe not. Even homeless people need to sleep somewhere-and some places are less transient than others.”

Nick took a long sip of his coffee. “You’re thinking Silver Hills?”

“If any of our missing subjects were crashing there, could be their stuff is still around.”

“After a month? Doubtful-but I guess we don’t have anything to lose.”

They finished their coffee, paid up, and left.

Silver Hills was downtown, just off Main Street and alongside Woodlawn Cemetery. An iron fence marked the boundary of the graveyard; the sidewalk that ran parallel to it held around two dozen dome-shaped nylon tents in a single row. Men sat cross-legged in the doorways or stood around at the edge of the street, some drinkin g beer from cans.

Nick and Riley approached the first person they saw, a woman offloading flats of bottled water from the bed of a truck to the sidewalk.

“Excuse me,” said Riley. “I was wondering-”

The woman whirled around. She was short, Latino, and wearing a T-shirt that read COMMUNITY OUTREACH. “You want to arrest me? Go ahead!”

Nick gave her what he hoped was a disarming smile. “No, no, we’re not going to arrest you-”

“I see-you’ll just give me a ticket then, eh? Some more money the mayor can flush down the toilet while these people suffer from dehydration!”

“Calm down, ma’am,” said Riley. “We don’t care if you’re giving the homeless water-”

“Really? Did someone repeal that damn law and forget to tell me?”

Riley gave Nick a puzzled frown, and he gave her a look of embarrassed admission in return.

“No, ma’am,” he said, “I’m afraid that law’s still in effect. But while it’s technically still illegal to distribute food or water to the indigent, I personally don’t see any such infraction going on. And neither does my partner. Right?”

Riley blinked. “Uh, no, of course not. We’re more interested in trying to locate certain individuals who have gone missing.”

She glared at them, but her voice was slightly less hostile. “Why? You going to throw them in jail because you caught them sleeping in a park?”

“No, ma’am,” said Nick. “We’re actually worried that they may have come to harm.”

That appeared to mollify her. “You have a picture?”

Riley handed her the composites. “We understand these two go by the names Buffet Bob and Zippo.”

The woman nodded as soon as she saw the picture. “Mmm-hmm. That’s Bob, all right. I’ve seen this other one hanging around with him, but I don’t know him by name. Some of them, they’re leery about giving you any personal information at all, even when you’re trying to help them.” Her glare returned. “I can’t imagine why.”

Riley nodded. “We’re also looking for Paintcan and Big Johnny.”

“There’re a couple Big Johnnys. Paintcan was a regular. Haven’t seen him around in over a month-same for Bob and his friend.”

“Did any of them camp here?” asked Nick.

“Bob did. That’s his tent, the blue one second from the end. Or it used to be, anyway; someone else might be living there now.”

They thanked her and moved on. The tent she’d pointed out was zipped up, but a young man sat in front of it on the remains of a torn sofa cushion. A brindled pit bull lazed beside him, tongue lolling in the heat.

“Hi,” said Nick. “I’m Nick Stokes, Vegas Crime Lab. You staying in this tent?”

The young man looked up, h is eyes hidden by cheap plastic sunglasses. A tattooed skull wept inky tears down his right cheek. “No, man. This is Buffet Bob’s crib. I’m just looking after it, you know?”

“That a full-time job?” asked Riley.

“Nah, we take turns. Figure he’ll turn up sooner or later, you know?”

“I’m sure he’ll appreciate it,” said Nick.

“Hey, Bob’s a good guy. Any time he had food, he’d share. Long as you’re not picky-this one time, he had a plastic bag full of hot shrimp stuffed in his pants. Sure were tasty, though.”

“I’ll bet,” said Riley. “Look, nobody’s seen Bob in over a month. We’re trying to find him-not because he’s in trouble, but because we think something may have happened to him. So we’re going to have to look through his things.”

“I don’t know. Don’t you, like, need a warrant or something?”

“This is a sidewalk, not an apartment building,” said Riley. “Public property.”

The pit bull seemed to notice them for the first time. It raised its blocky, muscular head and growled.

“Take it easy,” said Nick. “I understand you’re just looking out for Bob’s best interests. I get that. But like I said, we’re not here to bust him for anything-we’re just trying to find out what happened to him. Whatever’s in that tent could help. What do you think is more important-guarding Bob’s stuff or making sure he’s okay?”

The tattooed man thought about it, stroking the pit bull’s head. “I guess,” he said at last. “But if you find anything illegal, it’s not mine, right?”

“How could it be?” asked Riley. “You’re going to be sitting way over there.” She pointed at the opposite end of the row of tents.

After the man and his dog had left, Nick crouched down and unzipped the tent. The smell that wafted out was musty and unclean, but the aroma of a little dirty laundry ranked way below decomp on a CSI scale of stink.

The tent held a sleeping bag, an overturned cardboard box used as a makeshift table, and several bulging garbage bags stuffed with clothes and personal items.

“What do you think?” said Riley. “Take it all back to the lab, sort through it there?”

“If we have to. I’d rather take a quick look now, see what we come up with. This place may not be much, but it’s where someone lives; how would you feel if the police stopped by and confiscated your home and everything in it?”

Riley shook her head. “Like my life was broken and I’d better fix it. What was that about it being illegal to give food or water to the homeless?”