Shock Treatment (10 page)

“Yep,” Park bragged. “That was one of mine.”

Lovely,
she thought. She had seen necrotizing fasciitis in action before. It wasn't her idea of entertainment.

“Are you the sole producer?” Brass asked.

“No, I have a partner,” Park admitted. “But she's pretty hands-off when it comes to the day-to-day
running of the show. After all, she's got a lot more on her plate, you know?”

“Sorry, I don't know,” Catherine replied.

Park blinked in surprise, taken aback that they didn't know what he meant. “My partner is Tricia Grantley.” He waited in vain for them to catch on. “The studio exec?”

Catherine thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, but not much more than that. “Why don't you fill us in?”

“My bad,” he apologized. “When you work in the industry, you sometimes forget that not everybody subscribes to
Variety.
Tricia is head of development at Lunara Pictures.” Leaving the bar, he strolled over to the couch, where he pulled out his wallet and flipped it open. Inside was a photo of Park embracing a buxom African-American woman in a ruffled white dress. Park was wearing a tuxedo in the photo, his hair was still in a ponytail. “That's our wedding photo, taken here in Vegas five years ago.”

Catherine recognized the deluxe wedding chapel at the Bellagio. Tricia Grantley clutched an enormous bouquet. Rose petals were strewn before the altar. Weddings at the elegant chapel could easily run $15,000 or more. She had once processed a triple homicide there. A jilted girlfriend had brought a shotgun to the reception.

“You make a lovely couple,” she said.

“Thank you.” He took his wallet back. “That was her I was talking to when you came in.” A wince implied that the call had not gone well. “Needless to
say, she's deeply concerned about today's unfortunate accident.”

Catherine took a second look at the
Zombie Heat
poster. Noting that it was a Lunara production, she guessed that Tricia Grantley had greenlit her husband's film. Catherine hoped that Park's high-powered Hollywood connections wouldn't complicate their investigation. Vegas liked to portray itself as a studio-friendly town; all those movies and TV shows were good advertising and poured plenty of revenue into the local coffers. As did partying movie stars and their entourages.
All we need,
she fretted,
are some Hollywood high-rollers putting pressure on the mayor and the sheriff to wrap up this investigation quickly.

“Did I hear that you're suspending production?” Brass asked.

“That's right,” Park said. “While we conduct our own internal investigation into what went wrong, and wait for the official verdict as well.” He stared morosely into his drink. “I just hope we're not gone for good. For our audience's sake, that is. I would hate to deprive our loyal fans of their favorite show.”

“Of course,” Catherine said sarcastically. She was sure Greg would appreciate Park's concern.

“In the meantime,” Brass asked, “where are you staying in Vegas?” He glanced around the luxurious trailer. “Not here, I assume?”

He could do worse,
Catherine thought. The mobile mansion rivaled plenty of top-dollar hotel suites. Assuming you didn't mind living in a parking lot.

“I have a penthouse suite at Caesars Palace,” Park revealed, “when we're not on location. The rest of
the cast and crew are booked into a motel north of the Strip.”

It's good to be the producer,
she thought.

“I'm going to need that address as well,” Brass said. “You understand that nobody involved in this incident should leave Vegas until our investigation is completed. We may have more questions later on.”

“No problem,” Park said. “As it happens, we're going to be shooting the pilot for the
Zombie Heat
series here anyway.” He grinned at the prospect. “Gotta love Vegas. It always makes great TV.”

“Sure,” Catherine said. “As long as nobody gets hurt.”

“That's not going to happen again,” Park insisted. “Once is more than enough.” He took out a smartphone and checked his messages. “Speaking of which, I hate to rush you, but are we almost through here? I really need to deal with this crisis. Everybody and his brother wants a piece of me.”

“Just a few more questions,” Brass said. “Can you think of any reason why anyone would want to hurt Matt Novak?”

“Are you kidding? Everybody loved Matt. We're one big happy family here.”

“What about away from the show?” Catherine asked. “Did he have any enemies?”

“Not that I know off. Matt was a single guy, with a couple of ex-wives, but no real drama.” Confusion wrinkled his surgically-smooth countenance. “Why are you asking anyway? We know who shot him and why. That girl freaked and pulled a gun.”

“We just need to examine every angle,” Catherine explained. “Had you met Jill Wooten before?”

“No, just her friend.” He helped himself to another antacid, as though his gut was not enjoying this interview. “I still haven't met her, really. She was pretty hysterical the last time I saw her. The paramedics took her away.”

“What about her and Novak?” Brass asked. “Are you aware of any prior relationship between them?”

“She didn't even know who he was! He was wearing a hockey mask, remember?” A flicker of impatience eroded his easy manner. “Look, I understand that you folks have to ask these kinds of questions, and I appreciate your diligence and commitment to the truth, but, honestly, there's no big mystery here. We shocked the wrong person and she killed Matt in what she thought was self-defense. You've got the footage. See for yourself.”

“We'll do that,” Brass promised. “But this location is locked down until we're done here.”

“Naturally,” Park agreed. “You have any idea how long that's likely to take?”

Catherine was used to being nagged by impatient landlords and business owners anxious to open up shop again. She had learned from experience to never let herself get pinned down. “That depends on what we find.”

“That makes sense, I guess.” He frowned, obviously less than satisfied with her answer. She wondered just how long the studio had leased this real estate for. “But, really, that's not going to take too long? I mean, it was just an accident, right?”

Probably,
Catherine conceded. But right now they only knew one thing for sure.

Matt Novak was dead.

D
ESERT
P
ALM
H
OSPITAL
was starting to feel like Ray's home away from home away from home. Although several years had passed since he had actually worked full-time as a surgeon, he often found himself at Desert Palm processing a victim.

Like today.

Rita Segura was hooked up to a ventilator in the hospital's ICU. An IV was attached to her arm. Blinking apparatus monitored her vital signs, which appeared to be weak but stable. According to her attending physician, whom Ray had already spoken to, she had not regained consciousness since arriving at the hospital. Mechanical respiration was keeping her alive, while copious amounts of antivenin, as well as standard antibiotics, were doing the same. Her face was drawn and pale, her eyes closed, but Ray could tell that ordinarily she was an attractive woman. Her petite frame, and low body mass, helped explain why the venom had taken
effect so quickly. Children and smaller individuals were typically more at risk from envenomation.

He reminded himself that, on an average, there were only about fifteen fatal snakebites in North America every year, mostly from rattlesnakes and other pit vipers. Nobody had been killed by a coral snake in years. There was every reason to hope that Rita would not become a statistic.

But she wasn't out of the woods yet.

An older gentleman was seated at her bedside. Engrossed in his vigil, he did not look up as Ray approached the bed. The CSI cleared his throat to avoid startling him.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Mr. Segura?”

Rita's husband was in his sixties at least, with mussed silver hair and rumpled clothing. A wool sweater vest was unbuttoned. Sitting as close to the hospital bed as he could, he held on tightly to his wife's hand. Teary, red-rimmed eyes looked up at Ray. His cheeks were damp. “Yes?”

“My name is Ray Langston. I'm with the Las Vegas crime lab.” He placed his field kit next to the bed. “I'm sorry to disturb you.”

Marshall Segura pulled himself together. He wiped the tears from his eyes. “That's all right.” He squinted at Ray. “Langston, you say? Aren't you the one who figured out what kind of snake had bitten Rita? The doctors here say you may have saved her life.”

“It was a reasonable deduction,” Ray said. “I'm just glad it proved useful.”

Unfortunately, Desert Palm had not had the appropriate antivenin in stock, since coral snakes were
hardly native to Nevada. It had been necessary to fly the antivenin in from Texas, causing a dangerous delay in Rita's treatment. Small wonder she hadn't regained consciousness yet. If only the doctors here could have administered the antivenin sooner.

“Well, you have my gratitude, young man.” Segura turned his worried eyes back to his wife. “I hope you're not expecting to question Rita, though. I'm afraid she hasn't spoken since . . .”

He choked up, unable to complete the sentence.

“I understand,” Ray said. In fact, Detective Vartann had declined to join the CSI on this call since Rita Segura was obviously in no condition to be interviewed just yet. “But I still need to examine her wound if you don't mind.”

Segura nodded, his gaze never leaving Rita. “Go ahead. Do what you have to do.”

“Thank you.” Ray went around to the other side of the bed. He drew a curtain around them to provide a little more privacy. According to her chart, Rita had been bitten on the throat so Ray gently undid the top of her hospital gown and pulled it down to expose the base of her neck. A gauze bandage had been applied to the wound. He gently peeled it back.

A horseshoe pattern of tiny teeth marks confirmed that Rita had been attacked by a coral snake. A rattler or another pit viper, like copperheads and water moccasins, would have left two puncture marks instead. He was relieved to see minimal swelling around the site, which indicated that the antivenin and antibiotics were doing their job. The wounds had already scabbed over, but he hadn't been planning to measure their depth anyway. Instead
he took out a tape measurer and carefully recorded the bite radius. He then took multiple photos of the bite, placing a paper ruler against the unconscious woman's throat for scale. The flash of the camera did not rouse her.

“What are you doing that for?” Segura asked. His tone was not confrontational, merely concerned.

“We need to identify the snake that bit her,” Ray explained. “Measuring the distance between the bite marks may help us do that.”

“I see.” Segura averted his eyes from the ugly wound. “Dammit, I always knew that snake thing was a bad idea. I tried to talk her out of it.” Revulsion twisted his face. “Disgusting creatures!”

“You don't like snakes?” Ray asked.

Segura snorted. “Who does?” His expression softened as he watched over his wife. “But she seemed to enjoy it and I could never say no to her.” His voice grew hoarse with emotion. A handkerchief dabbed at his eyes. “It's not right, I tell you. She's so young, not like me. I'm not supposed to outlive her.”

His grief struck Ray as genuine, but he couldn't help noticing the extreme disparity in age between the elderly man and Rita Segura, who was still in her late twenties. The term “trophy wife” came to mind, somewhat uncharitably. Was it possible there were marital problems at play here, perhaps another man? The victim's spouse was always a prime suspect in any possible homicide or attempted homicide. Too many dissatisfied husbands and wives, Ray had discovered, came to consider “until death do you part” an escape hatch instead of a vow. It was enough to make one think twice about matrimony.

Maybe that's why so few CSIs take the plunge,
he thought.
Aside from Grissom and Sara, of course.

He replaced the bandage and pulled Rita's hospital gown back up. He walked around the bed to join Segura. Although Rita could not be interviewed yet, there was still her husband. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“No,” Segura answered. “What do you need to know?”

Ray pulled up a chair. “Can you think of anyone who might want to harm your wife?”

“I know exactly who is responsible for this nightmare,” Segura spat. Anger infused his voice, showing a harder side to the distraught old man. “The filthy animal she sent to prison.”

Ray was surprised by his answer. This was more than he had been expecting. He felt like a prospector who had accidentally stumbled onto the mother lode. “What do you mean?”

“About a month ago,” Segura said, “Rita received a summons for jury duty. I told her she should try to get out of it, but she insisted on doing her civic duty.” He beamed at her proudly. “That's the kind of decent, upstanding woman she is.”

“Very commendable.” Ray was eager to get to the point. “So what happened?”

“She ended up serving on the trial of a vicious drug dealer. The jury even appointed her foreman. I went with her to the courthouse every day, just to provide her with moral support.”

Or perhaps to keep a close watch on your alluring younger wife,
Ray thought. He hated to be so cynical, but that was an occupational hazard. The job
trained you not to take people's testimony at face value and to always look for ulterior motives. Maybe this seemingly devoted old man also had a jealous and suspicious streak?

“If only she hadn't gotten on that jury,” Segura sobbed, breaking into tears. “Maybe none of this would have happened.”