Donn Cortez - The Killing Jar

“Okay, Hodges, I got your page,” said Nick, striding into the Trace lab. “What have you got?”

Hodges handed him a printout. “This.”

Nick took the sheet. “What, no guessing games, no wordplay? I figured you’d do ten minutes on the phrase cat thyme alone.”

Hodges sighed. “Sorry, I’m a little down. I found out the lab isn’t really going to be sold.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

He shrugged. “It is for Buddy Bloodspatter.” He walked away, shaking his head.

“Hodges, you get a little stranger every day,” Nick murmured. Then he headed for Grissom’s office, scanning the sheet as he went. By the time he reached his boss’s doorway, he was shaking his head himself.

“Got the results back from the GC mass spec on the cat thyme,” said Nick. “Maybe you can see something here, but I don’t.”

He handed it to Grissom, who scanned it quickly. “Almost ten percent dolichodial,” he said. “There’s a monoterpene dialdehyde called anisomorphal that’s a diastereomer of dolichodial. Presumably, you could process one into the other.”

“So you think he’s producing an isomorphal? What is it, a poison?”

“Not exactly.” Grissom turned to his workstation and called up a file. “The chemical anisomorphal was discovered in 1962 and named after Anisomorpha buprestoides, the Florida walking stick insect.” He swiveled the monitor to give Nick a better view. “It’s the primary component of a defensive spray they aim at predators. But even though it can cause intense pain-and even temporary blindness if sprayed in the eyes-it’s not lethal.”

Nick studied the picture on-screen. The Florida walking stick’s body and legs were so thin that if you didn’t know what you were looking at, you could easily mistake it for a twig. “Cryptic camouflage and a chemical defense,” said Nick. “That definitely fits with LW’s pattern.”

“Yes-but again, we have to think in terms of his objectives. Since exposure to anisomorphal isn’t fatal, why is he producing it?”

Las Vegas was an artificial paradise, a manufactured oasis created by money, vision, greed-and most of all, water. The lush greenery that fronted many hotels, the palm trees, the fountains, the ersatz canal that flowed through the interior of the Venetian resort… none of it was possible without plenty of water. Even so, the plants t hat lived and breathed in the hot, dry air of the city needed regular tending, and that meant there was an entire horticulture subindustry dedicated to their welfare.

The greenhouse that sprawled in front of Riley was a branch of that industry-or had been, until the economy’s free fall had turned it into an empty glass bunker. The sign over the front door read TROPICANA BOTANICA, and from the painting of the brilliant, multicolored flower beside it Riley guessed they’d planned on supplying exotic tropical blooms to the hotels, casinos, and restaurants of the Strip. But while the water still flowed, the money had dried up-and so had one entrepreneur’s vision.

She got out of her vehicle, closing the door quietly. The previous two places she’d visited had been dead ends, but this one seemed different. There were fresh tire tracks on the dirt road that led to the place, and they led to a sliding steel door that was probably where delivery trucks had once been parked.

The front door was sealed with a large padlock and chain, a peeling notice of foreclosure pasted to the wood above it. The greenhouse itself was set back behind the offices, its transparent roof gleaming in the sun. She couldn’t see what was inside, though; the wall panels had been covered with sheets of newspaper on the inside, floor to ceiling.

She walked around the side of the offices and got close enough to check the date on the nearest paper. Just over two months ago.

The wind was kicking up, blowing dust in her eyes. She leaned in close to the glass, listening intently and trying to shut out the sound of the wind.

Something moved inside.

Grissom got on the elevator of the Embassy Gold flanked by four security officers. It seemed Athena Jordanson’s vow to demand increased security hadn’t been forgotten.

The queen of soul was eyeing herself critically in a full-length mirror while a seamstress made final adjustments on her dress. It was a long, slinky affair, slit high on one end and plunging low on the other.

“Thank you for seeing me,” said Grissom. “I realize you must be extremely busy.”

Athena glanced at Grissom and smiled. “I am, but that’s a good thing. Helps keep my mind off recent events.”

“I apologize if my department’s search of your new hotel inconvenienced you-”

She stopped him with a wave of her hand-a move Grissom suspected she was rather practiced at. “No, no, no. Couldn’t raise a stink about security and then bitch when someone actually did something, could I? Well, I could, but that’s a little too diva for me.” She went back to studying the contours of the dress in the mirror.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

She looked back at him sharply. “You find something?”

Grissom shook his head. “I wish we had. Unfortunately, all our searches came up negative.”

“Unfortunately? Guess you’re not a fan, huh?”

“On the contrary-I enjoy your music a great deal. But if we’d found what we were looking for, I could safely say you’re out of danger. Finding nothing… proves nothing.”

“Maybe there’s nothing to find. After all, isn’t the creep who sent me all those letters dead?”

“I don’t believe he is, Ms. Jordanson. And that’s why I’m here-to ask you to postpone your show.”

“Postpone my show?” She frowned. “I can’t do that, Mr. Grissom. Contracts work both ways-I squeezed this hotel for all I could, and in return they want their money’s worth. I try to back out now, I’ll spend the next ten years in court instead of on the stage.”

“I’m not asking you to cancel-just push it back.”

“Why? You think you’ll find something the second time you didn’t the first?” She turned back to the mirror. “I appreciate you trying to cover all the bases, but it’s just not gonna happen. I mean, can you give me any solid proof that the person who killed Paul is still alive and trying to sabotage my show?”

Grissom hesitated. “No.”

“Then I can’t disappoint my fans or the people who sign my paycheck. Sorry, Mr. Grissom.”

“So am I,” said Grissom. “Thank you for your time.”

The guards escorted him back to the elevator and down. He walked out through the lobby, then turned around and surveyed the front of the hotel. It was a massiv e structure, curving like a sine wave, and the front of the property was dominated by a series of stepped waterfalls surrounding a huge reflecting pool. The dancing fountains were as good as those in front of the Bellagio-some said even better.

Water, Grissom thought. In the middle of the desert, water is more than just life-it’s gold. And in Vegas, the more water you can waste on sheer spectacle, the more gold you obviously have. We treat the Strip more like a river than a street; we build bridges over it rather than disrupt the flow of tourists in their cars.

He walked toward the parking lot and his own vehicle, then stopped and turned around. On an impulse, he took the escalator up to where the nearest pedway crossed over the street.

No, these aren’t bridges. They’re aqueducts, piping visitors from hotels and casinos on one side of Las Vegas Boulevard to the other. In a town so dry we build escalators outside, water is a metaphor for wealth-but the real wealth is still in people’s pockets. Until, dazzled by the sights and sounds and carefully created atmosphere, they make their contribution to the local aquifer.