Torres had been taken to a clinic by some of his friends. One or more of those "friends" might not be so friendly after all.

Nick tossed the dummy and the rods into the back of the vehicle and approached the young female officer who had spoken to him. "Hey," he said, "can you tell me how to get to that clinic they took Torres to? I've got a few more questions for him."

Being deceitful with fellow cops tied his stomach up in knots. But he was on shaky ground – literally inside a sovereign nation, where he had no authority. He didn't know anyone but Aguirre and didn't know who could be trusted and who couldn't. Domingo had been the chairman, in charge of tribal government, including the police. If they were loyal to him and they thought Torres had something to do with his murder, what might they do to get back at him? Even the cop Aguirre had sent to watch over Torres might be in on the plot.

Torres had trusted whoever shot him in the back. Nick wouldn't make that same mistake. Once the cop had jotted down directions for him, he jumped into the Yukon and tore off down the road, dialing Brass as he went.

Whenever Catherine was called into Conrad Ecklie's office, she knew she was in for bad news. But when Ecklie came to hers – especially when his narrow face had that lovely eggplant coloring to it that it did now – she knew the news would be even worse.

"Have a seat, Conrad," she offered.

"I'll stand. I won't be staying long."

"Suit yourself."

"You went to see Helena Cameron."

She had already guessed that's what this visit was about, had known this chat was coming. She felt the way her daughter, Lindsey, probably felt when Catherine went into her room or took her aside for one of those critical mother-daughter "chats" about hanging out with the wrong people, using a fake ID to get into a club, doing poorly on a test, or committing some other infraction that seemed minor to teenager but major to that teenager's mother. "I did."

"You told her that her son is dead. To be more precise, you told her that her head of security killed her son on her property last night."

"I did tell her that," Catherine said. "Because it's true."

"The way I hear it, you could have been a little more diplomatic about it."

"And just how did you happen to hear it at all, Conrad?"

"I heard about it from the mayor. As in the mayor of Las Vegas. He heard about it from Marvin Coatsworth, Mrs. Cameron's attorney. Do you have any idea how many times the mayor has called me directly over the course of my career?"

"I don't have a clue."

He held out his right hand, fingers splayed. "Not very many times, Cath. Not many times at all. I can count them on this hand, probably. And when he does call me, I don't like it. At all. It's never a good thing."

"I'm sorry you got that call. But I had to see her, and I had to give her that information."

"You didn't have to inform her yourself!" Ecklie argued. His facial color was fading, back to its typical hue, but Catherine could still see a vein in his neck bitching spasmodically. "Need I remind you, you are a CSI, not the lead detective on this case. From now on, if you want to communicate with Mrs. Cameron, you'll do it through Sam Vega, who will talk to Coatsworth. You know how to reach Sam, right?"

'Yes. I do. But Conrad, you've done this job. You know that sometimes you have to see someone in person, to observe a reaction or to check for some physical attribute. No, I'm not a detective, but in this case, seeing her in person was crucial."

"I know that's often the case. It isn't here, not anymore. You've seen her. You know what she looks like. That's all you get." He stared at her for a moment, as if daring her to disagree, to protest. It reminded her of something else Gil had told her about Ecklie once. "Some people avoid conflict, or shy away from a fight," he had said. "But not Conrad. Sometimes I think he seeks them out or intentionally incites them. It might even be good for his mental health – at least he isn't internalizing his anger. But it can be hard on everyone else around him."

"Are you hearing me?" Ecklie asked when Catherine didn't respond.

"Yeah, I hear you," Catherine said, deciding that she wouldn't avoid the conflict, either. She thought Gil might have been proud of her next statement. "Now you hear me. I'm sorry the mayor called you. I will make every effort not to contact Helena Cameron directly again. But by seeing her once, I obtained information valuable to the case."

"The case is open and shut, Catherine. We know who the victim was, and we know who shot him and why. McCann won't be charged. What else matters?"

"It's not that simple, I'm afraid. What was Troy Cameron doing at the estate? Where has he been for the last ten years? And more important, where is Daria Cameron now, and does her disappearance have anything to do with her brother's reappearance? That's the case, and there's nothing simple about it."

Ecklie paused, then let out a long sigh. "All right, you made your point. I'm not going to second-guess you, and I'll back you up as far as I can. You know hat. But do us all a favor, and go through Vega and Coatsworth, from now on, okay?"

"Okay, Conrad. I'll go through them if I can. And I won't disturb Mrs. Cameron if I don't absolutely have to. Good enough?"

He nodded wearily, letting his shoulders droop and rubbing his temples with his fingertips, as if trying to ease a sudden headache. He hated backing down, but Catherine had made it clear that she wasn't going to. More important, she was in the right. Gil definitely would have loved this. "I guess it'll have to be."

"Looks like it," she said. "Now, if you don't mind, I still have a lot of work to do."

"Sure, get to it," he said. Halfway through the doorway, he stopped. "Just wrap it up tight, okay?" he tossed back over his shoulder.

"No problem," Catherine said. "You can take that to the bank."

Doc Robbins was still in the morgue, which both astonished and pleased Catherine. He was a family man, and she knew he liked to get home after his shift to be with them. And although he never let on that it bothered him, he was a double amputee, and pulling a double shift had to involve a fair amount of pain on his part. He looked weary, and his shoulders were slightly hunched. He was probably putting more weight on his forearm crutches than he usually did.

But it pleased her because he knew more about medicine than most MDs she had known, having been one himself before switching to a career as a medical examiner. She knew he kept up on the latest medical developments, too, even when they didn't appear to affect his work directly. She needed a doctor now, and she didn't think Hutch Boullet would be interested in talking with her any further.

"Long day, Catherine," he said. Coming from him, it didn't sound like a complaint, simply an observation. He said it with a grin on his face, and he was one of the few men she knew whose eyes actually did twinkle when he smiled. She liked him a great deal, even though, for all the twinkling and smiling and genial conversation, there was something about him that he kept hidden, not just from her but from everyone.

Everyone at the lab, at least. And she was positive that there were things about his working life that he kept from his family. He seemed intent on separating the two facets of his life, as if to guarantee that they did not start to impinge on each other, to flow together like two rivers joining. She couldn't blame him for that; she liked to keep Lindsey and her work, which so often involved violence and death, as far apart as she could. Nobody wanted to go home and tell the kids about the victim found facedown in a house with claw marks from a hammer on her head and insects infesting her body. You shared the good stories, the ones with happy endings, and the others you talked about only at work – or, for some people, on a therapist's couch.