Wherefore

Chapter 3

We arrive in LA and make our way through the security stations on our way to the baggage claim. I wait for Grissom to make a wry comment on the "LAX Security" sign, and he doesn't disappoint.

After picking out a rental car, we're on our way. Thank god he knows this city, because traffic is congested and only his back-alley shortcuts are keeping us moving steadily. In just under an hour, we arrive at the Los Angeles Metropolitan Crime Lab.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and grab my kit out of habit. When I notice he's not moving, I look up and catch him staring at the building. "Grissom?"

"Hmm?" He snaps out of his reverie. "Sorry, I. haven't been here in a while."

"How long ago did you leave?"

"Over a decade," he says. There's an air of nostalgia about him, as if he's picturing all that went on within the building's walls. "Looks like they renovated the entrance."

"Maybe you can give me a tour," I venture, and this earns me a smile.

"Maybe. Let's go in."

The elderly receptionist remembers Grissom, and gives him a big hug. She hands us visitor passes and waves us in.

"Does the inside look the same?" I ask, as we make our way down the hallway. I remember what Juliette said about crime labs and their righteous energy, and I can see what she means.

"Pretty much, yeah."

The receptionist isn't the only one who remembers him. CSI's and cops and lab techs are coming out of the woodwork to shake Grissom's hand.

There's an uncomfortable moment when an older man greets us, exclaiming, "Gil! Juliette! How are you two?"

"This is my associate, Sara Sidle," Grissom corrects him, his neck turning red. "I was telling you to see an eye doctor ten years ago, Jonesy, when are you going to take my advice?" They tease each other good-naturedly for a few minutes, and then we continue down the hall.

Eventually we reach the office of Henry Jenkins, a tall black man with a booming voice and an iron handshake. He and Grissom share one of those awkward man-hugs, then we take our seats.

"I talked to the show's producers, and they've granted permission for you two to interview Collingswood on the set," Jenkins tells us. "They did warn me that he's a bit. temperamental."

Grissom smirks. "Yeah, well. I know kung fu, remember?" This sends them into a laughing discussion of the worst interrogations they've ever held.

All I can do is watch in amazement. Ever since we set foot in this place, Grissom's been outgoing and funny and boisterous, and it's rendered me speechless. Is this what he was like before Juliette broke his heart? I can't help thinking, if I didn't like her so much, I might hate her.

"Ms. Sidle," Jenkins says, getting my attention. "Tell me, is it hard to get this guy to behave out there in Las Vegas?"

"Um. no," I admit, amused. "No, he's pretty well-behaved."

"Well, nothing like the love of a good woman to do that to a man," Jenkins replies, grinning broadly. I force myself to maintain an even expression. Don't swallow, don't swallow, dear god don't swallow. And whatever you do, don't look at Grissom.

"We should get going," Grissom says finally, and we both stand.

Jenkins does, too. "Good to see you again, Gil. And remember, if you ever want to come back."

"I remember," Grissom replies, shaking his hand warmly.

We walk out quickly, getting into the car without looking at each other. He pulls onto the highway, and I have to put the visor down because of the bright sunlight. I'm not used to driving with him when it's light out. It's kind of unsettling.

"Listen, Sara," he says finally. "About. about what Henry said, about us."

"Don't worry about it, Grissom, it's understandable."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I have seen Juliette," I say, rolling my eyes. "She looks like me and she was a CSI. It's not such a ridiculous leap for him to make."

He clears his throat uneasily. "I guess."

"Is that why you first approached me after the seminar? Because I looked like." I shake my head. "You know what? Don't answer that, I don't want to know."

The rest of the ride is in silence, and I keep my mind occupied by trying to figure out what elements make up smog.

The Wizard is filmed in a huge building, which is strange, considering that the set is just a couple of chairs with buzzers and some corny lighting. A production assistant leads us to Frank Collingswood's dressing room, which has a large gold star on the door.

When he finally comes out, my first thought is that he's a lot shorter than I'd expected. Guess those elevated seats help. "Welcome," he beams. "How may I help you?"

We introduce ourselves and enter his dressing room, settling into two folding chairs. "Mr. Collingswood," I begin, "What can you tell us about Juliette Davis?"

"Who?"

I start to respond, but Grissom cuts me off.

"I'm confused, Mr. Collingswood. you claim to know everything, yet you can't remember the name of the person who ruined your winning streak on this show?"

A flicker of anger passes through Collingswood's eyes, but he quickly replaces it with feigned disinterest. "Oh, right. Juliette Davis, sure. What do you want to know about her?"

"What can you tell us?"

"She was a fraud," he says loftily. "Remember the scandal with that game show in the 50's, where it turned out the contestants were fed the answers?"

"Twenty-One," I supply.

"Yeah. It was like that. The network hired her to boost the ratings, that's all."

Grissom frowns. "Got any proof of that?"

"Sure," Collingswood asserts. "Proof is, nobody else would know all those answers."

"Like what?" I ask. "Give us some examples."

"Okay. Where in London can you find models of dinosaurs made by-"

"By Benjamin Waterhouse Hawkins?" Grissom interrupts. "Crystal Palace."

Collingswood smirks. "Not bad. What was suspended by a single hair?"

"The Sword of Damocles."

"What is in the traditional French blend of fines herbes?"

"Chives, tarragon, parsley, and chervil."

It's clear Collingswood is no longer amused. "What type of knife does a Gurka soldier carry?"

"A kukri."

"Hitchcock said that the length of a film should be directly related to what?"

"The endurance of the human bladder."

The Wizard's bald head is starting to sweat, but Grissom looks relaxed and somewhat bored. "You read the questions," Collingswood accuses.

"No, I didn't. And if you think I did, make up your own."

"Where did the Great Fire of London break out in 1667?"

"A baker's shop on Pudding Lane. And it was 1666, not 1667."

"What were the names of John the Baptist's parents?"

"Zacharias and Elizabeth."

"What year was the element dysprosium discovered?"

"1886."

Collingswood's mouth opens and closes as he tries desperately to think of more trivia.

"I'm sorry," Grissom says smoothly, "but when do these questions get hard?"

I have to bite down on the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at Collingswood's stunned expression.

"Why are you here?" he asks finally, the bravado gone. "Why are you asking about Juliette Davis?"

"Taken any trips to Vegas lately?" I can tell my question rattles him.

"Vegas? No."

"Interesting," Grissom says, pulling a file out of his bag. "Because you're listed on the passenger manifest of an LAX-McCarran flight two days ago."

"And you also used your credit card to book a room at the Tangiers that night," I add. "The same night you went to Juliette Davis' hotel room."

"You. you know all that?" he stammers.

"Sure do," I reply. "I guess we're the ones who know everything."

Collingswood sighs heavily. "I wanted to get her to admit that they'd fed her the answers. They're planning to air the episode next week, and it's my last chance to protect my reputation."

"What'd she say?"

"She wasn't there," he says, shaking his head. "I talked to her mother, who tried to convince me that Juliette hadn't cheated. She made me feel guilty for showing up there, so I left."

Grissom's eyes narrow. "You left."

"Yeah. Took a flight back that same night." We just stare at him, and he starts to squirm. "Look, if you don't believe me, ask her mom."

"We can't," I say softly.

"Why not?"

"Because she's in the morgue."

I watch the blood drain from Collingswood's face. "Whoa whoa whoa. I didn't touch that old woman."

"No?"

"No," he says adamantly. "Why would I? She had nothing to do with the show. It was her daughter-" His eyes widen. "Is her daughter dead too?"

"No," Grissom replies. "No, just the mother."

"Well, hook me up to a polygraph, take a sample of my DNA, check all my clothes for gunshot residue, I've got nothing to hide."

I catch Grissom's eye, and he gives me a slight nod. Opening my kit, I take out a swab and rub it on the inside of Collingswood's cheek.

"We'll keep in touch," I tell him ominously as we rise and head for the door.

Collingswood calls out to Grissom. "I hope you never go up against me on The Wizard. your depth of knowledge is impressive."

Grissom doesn't turn. "Albert Einstein said imagination is more important than knowledge."

We walk down the hallway, ignoring Collingswood's insistent cry of "I knew that!"

"I don't think he's our guy," I murmur to Grissom. "He thought Josephine O'Dell was shot, not stabbed- and he's right, there's no obvious motive."

"Yeah," he concurs. "Hopefully our meeting with Josephine's lawyer will be more fruitful. At this rate we could be back in Vegas tonight."

O'Dell Financial Group occupies an imposing building in downtown LA. Their lawyers are in the basement, which I'm sure someone thought was funny.

"I'm Dan Kerwin," an attractive man greets us in the lobby. He looks about my age, with blond hair and a killer smile. Grissom's shooting daggers at him while he shakes my hand. "And this is Robert Davis, Vice President of O'Dell Financial."

"Juliette's husband," I realize aloud, turning to the man beside him. He's strikingly handsome, with jet black hair and light green eyes. I'm starting to wish I could get stuck in an elevator with these three. Although by the look on Grissom's face, he'd tear the other two to pieces in seconds.

Kerwin leads us into his office, a suitably ostentatious display of cherry wood and chrome. "Please, have a seat," he says, motioning to several leather chairs and opening a thick file as we sit. "So you're here to inquire about Mrs. O'Dell's will."

"Yes," I reply.

"It's pretty straightforward." He hands a copy to me, and I lean toward Grissom so we can both read it. "As you'll see, she left ten percent of her estate to the American Cancer Society. There's a trust for her grandson, Ian Davis, in the amount of fifteen million dollars, to be distributed when he turns eighteen. The remainder of the estate, including a 51 percent share in O'Dell Financial Group, was left to her daughter, Juliette O'Dell Davis."

"You're not investigating Julie, are you?" Robert says, his face falling. "She'd never hurt Josephine. Never."

"We're looking at all angles," I tell him, wondering how many times in my career I've said those words. Must be hundreds, if not thousands.

"I mean, sure, they had disagreements," he continues, "but what mother and daughter don't?"

Grissom's face is stormy. "What about you, Mr. Davis?"

Robert blinks, taken aback. "What about me?"

"How was your relationship with the late Mrs. O'Dell?"

"It was fine," he huffs, turning pink. "We got along great. Why are you asking me that?"

"We look at all angles," Grissom parrots, staring at him intently.

"Well, look somewhere else," Robert shoots back. "I didn't benefit from Josephine's death, as you can see."

"I can also see that you're here, which I find suspicious, since we asked to meet with Mr. Kerwin. Not with you."

"I'm here representing the family. My family." Robert's face is quickly becoming a dark shade of purple. "Don't think I don't know who you are, Dr. Grissom. Don't make that mistake."

"Okay," I interrupt loudly. "Everyone settle down. Dr. Grissom and I are here to make sure that the person who murdered Mrs. O'Dell is brought to justice. Let's keep old rivalries out of this, shall we?"

Robert immediately apologizes, looking ashamed, but Grissom continues to glare at him. We look through the will for a few more minutes, then rise to leave.

"I'll walk you out," Robert says, putting a hand lightly on my elbow.

Grissom immediately puts a protective arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. "We can find our own way, thanks." He marches toward the door, half-dragging me. Only when we're on the elevator do I untangle myself from his arm and scold him for acting so juvenile. I just hope he doesn't notice how flushed I am.

We're supposed to stay another day, but there's really no reason. The drive back to the airport is quiet, and from his tight grip on the steering wheel, I can tell Grissom's still fuming about his run-in with Juliette's husband.

"I know you don't like the guy," I say finally, "but he's right. There's no motive. If the will implicates anyone, it implicates Juliette. She was the one who was in Vegas at the time, and according to Kerwin, she's just received the controlling share in a multi-billion-dollar company."

"She already had twenty-five percent," he says, sounding tired. "Her father left it to her when he died. You have to understand. Julie never cared about the business, or the money. She was a scientist. That's what mattered to her most."

"Apparently not, considering she quit so that she and Robert could have Ian."

He doesn't respond.

It's late, but LAX is busy as ever. We're waiting in line to change our tickets when Grissom gets a phone call and steps to the side.

"How can I help you?" the ticket agent asks me wearily.

"We're booked on a flight back tomorrow, but we'd like to change it to tonight if possible."

"A flight back where?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Las Vegas. McCarran Airport."

She taps some computer keys, then nods. "We have available seating on a flight that leaves in an hour and a half."

"Sounds perfect."

Grissom hangs up his call and rejoins me in line. "That was Ecklie," he tells me. "He wanted to know when we'd be back."

The ticket agent presses a few more keys. "Okay, for starters I'll need your full names."

"Sure, I'm Sara Ann Sidle, and he's." I turn to Grissom, realizing I don't know his middle name.

"Gilbert Ian Grissom."