Instead of turning around to look, he pushed forward. The floor of the rock shelf was dusty, and there were bug carcasses and bits of rodent feces scattered about – he checked his hands, pleased to see that the gloves were holding so far – but the piled rocks had kept the interior relatively clean. He saw scuff marks in the caked-on dust, though, leading past the mummified body. Aiming the flashlight that way, he saw that the cave curved around, and he couldn't see its endpoint from there.

"Hello!" he called. "Las Vegas Police! Is there somebody in here?"

He might have heard a faint intake of breath, but he couldn't be sure. He continued past the body, careful not to touch it, moving on hands and knees and trying to keep the flashlight pointed ahead at all times.

No way of telling what's around that comer, he thought. The cave might continue on for five feet or a hundred or more. There might be someone waiting to ambush him with a gun. The idea made his heart pound in his throat, but there was no way around it. He had to see what was there. And if the mummy was indeed Bix Cameron, he couldn't risk going for backup and letting someone dispose of or damage the body. The casino magnate had been missing long enough.

"Las Vegas Police Department!" he announced again as he neared the corner. Then he shoved the flashlight around and beamed it into the darkness. No one shot at it, so he risked following it with his head.

No one would be doing any shooting in that cave, not that day.

The cave spur reached back only about seven feet. Lying on her side, against the back wall, was someone Greg recognized from photographs as Daria Cameron.

As Catherine had suggested, there was an orange cast to the young woman's skin. Moving closer, he saw white streaks on her broken fingernails. She wasn't moving, but as Greg crawled nearer still, he saw that her chest rose and fell slightly as she took shallow breaths.

She wore brand-new hiking boots on her small feet, the tread matching the tracks he had seen outside.

"Ms. Cameron., Greg said. He couldn't tell if she heard him or not, but she gave no sign of it. He touched her arm gently. "Ms. Cameron, I'm going to get you some help. I'll be right back, okay?"

She didn't answer. He had not expected her to. If she was conscious at all, it was just barely. He backed out of the space, climbed out the hole through which he'd entered, and tugged his cell phone from his pocket, fully expecting to see the words "No Service" on the display.

Ten years ago, when Bix Cameron had come there – or been brought there, probably along with his son, Troy – there certainly would not have been service there. But in those ten years, Las Vegas had grown fast, and cellular-phone use had risen dramatically. Coverage areas had expanded as well, and he had two bars. That was plenty. He made the call, then went back inside the cave to wait with Daria Cameron.

She had come there to die where her father had, where her brother had been badly wounded and had lost touch with his own identity.

Greg didn't intend to let that happen.

He was still sitting beside her in the dark, speaking in quiet tones, telling her about his life, current events, sports, whatever he could think of, when he heard the thwap-thwap-thwap of the Life Flight helicopter's blades, muffled by the stone walls but still distinctly recognizable. He touched Daria Cameron again – she had not budged but was still breathing – and raced out of the cave, waving his arms in the air to bring the chopper down as close as it could come.

21

Robert Domingo had taken a swipe at someone, presumably his assailant, and as a result, there were bits of tissue under his fingernails, more than enough skin cells for Wendy Simms to run DNA tests on.

The usual tests hadn't turned up much useful data. There was no match to anyone in the databases, although that wasn't necessarily telling. There were far more people not in the databases than people who were, and although it would have made her life easier if everyone on earth was sampled at birth, she knew that was not only impractical but would have been an enormous violation of personal privacy.

Failing any progress there, she turned instead to one of the not-so-usual tests, a brand-new method at evaluating DNA data that had been developed recently at the University of Arizona. The idea wasn't tomatch the DNA sample with any specific individual but to see what other information it could tell the careful investigator about its source.

When she had printed the results out and studied them, she grabbed for the phone and called Ray Langston.

"It's Wendy, Ray. I found out something interesting about the Domingo suspect."

"You have an ID for me?" he asked. She could hear the excitement in his voice and hoped what she did have wasn't too much of a letdown.

"Not a suspect… but I think I can narrow the field a bit."

"Narrow is good." He managed not to sigh, but just barely. "A name and address would be better, but I'll take narrow."

"It's a male," she said. "Or he's a male, I guess. And he's not Native American."

"He's not?" He sounded as surprised as she had been.

"Nope. He's probably blond, in fact. With blue eyes. You are definitely looking for a Caucasian. If you guys are only considering people from the reservation, I think you're missing the boat."

"I'm trying not to miss the boat," Ray said.

"What?"

"Never mind. Do you have anything else for me?"

"That's it for now. Ray. White male, blond and blue-eyed. It may not be a lot, but I bet it rules out a lot of suspects among the Paiutes."

"That it does, Wendy. Thank you."

Catherine had already turned into the Cameron driveway and was sitting at the front gate waiting for the loud buzz that would admit her, when her phone rang. Did Conrad Ecklie have spies watching her? Maybe he was keeping tabs on her with satellite surveillance.

It was not the undersheriff on the other end of the line, though, but Archie Johnson. "I've been doing some snooping around online," he told her.

"Which is basically your job."

"It's like getting paid to play," he said. He loved technology of every stripe, and if he hadn't been employed by the crime lab, she had no doubt he would have been involved with it in some other way. "But this snooping was mostly into financial data, which is pretty dry stuff, not all that much fun at all. Still, it's intriguing. Do you have any idea how much someone can find out about your personal financial matters if they know how to look?"

"I'd have to have money even to have personal financial matters," Catherine answered. "Instead, I have a teenage daughter."

"Well, let me tell you, Helena Cameron's daughter isn't a teenager anymore. And Helena Cameron is not the wealthiest woman in Las Vegas anymore, either."

"Was she ever?"

"Top ten, anyway, once upon a time."

The gate buzzed and parted in the middle, each side rolling away from the other, and Catherine inched forward until she could safely pass between them. "I'm at the house now, Archie. Talk to me."

"Okay, here's the short version. She did have a lot of money, mostly in investments – stocks, real estate, and such. But that's all past tense. Her stocks have been cashed out, buildings sold, casino holdings gone. What she is left with are a few bank and money-market accounts, some small-time stocks and bonds, the stuff that was never worth much to begin with. Everything that was really valuable has been liquidated."

"Over what time period?"

"Mostly the last five to seven years."

"That's interesting."