Shock Treatment (20 page)

Nick tried to open the file. A dialogue box asked for his password.

“Damn,” he muttered. “The data's encrypted.”

He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

“Let me try,” Greg volunteered.

Nick stepped aside to let Greg take a whack at it. The younger CSI tried several passwords, including “Oscar” and “bear,” but nothing worked. An attempt to do an end run around the encryption ended in failure.

“No dice,” Greg said finally, conceding defeat. “I think this calls for some seriously high-powered hacking mojo.”

Nick knew what he meant. “Let's go see Archie.”

T
HE
S
TRIP WAS
hopping.

Despite a nip in the air, the sidewalks of Las Vegas Boulevard were as packed as ever. Neon lit up the night. Palm trees swayed above the legendary street that pretty much defined Vegas as far as the rest of the world was concerned. Taxis, tour busses, and ritzy stretch limos crept through bumper-to-bumper traffic, giving the vehicles' occupants plenty of time to take in the sights.

And there was a lot to see. The gaudy grandeur of Sin City seemed to have warped time and space itself, placing a gleaming Egyptian pyramid next door to a shining medieval castle, complete with a drawbridge, spires, and turrets. A ten-story-tall sphinx gazed out over the anachronistic scenery. Emerald laser beams fired from his eyes, causing a man-made lake to boil. According to legend, the sphinx slew all who could not solve its riddles. Some days, Catherine felt like there was a sphinx
looking over her shoulder—every hour seemed to bring more riddles than answers.

Brass's Taurus cruised north past the hotels, casinos, and resorts. Rubbernecking drivers brought traffic to a crawl. The Taurus's windows were rolled up to keep out both the cold and the exhaust. Riding shotgun next to Brass, Catherine scanned the bustling sidewalks, on the lookout for Craig Gonch. A printout of his driver's license photo rested in her lap. The photo showed a ruggedly handsome young man with a square chin, wavy brown hair, and blue eyes. Gonch actually managed to look hot in a DMV photo; Catherine couldn't blame Jill or Gabriella for falling for him. A raffish smile offered no hint that he was a potential stalker-slash-abuser.

They never do,
she thought. If there was one thing she had learned, as a CSI and as a woman, it was that faces lied. Unlike evidence.

A life-sized replica of the Statue of Liberty saluted them at the corner of Tropicana. A roller-coaster looped above a glittering facsimile of the Manhattan skyline. A jaded native of Vegas, Catherine easily tuned out the distracting spectacle to focus on the faces on the sidewalk, but without much luck. So far Gonch was nowhere to be seen. She started to wonder if Gabriella had steered them in the wrong direction, or had perhaps tipped Gonch off that they were looking for him. For all they knew, he could have already ducked out of sight.

C'mon, girl,
Catherine thought.
Don't let us down.

They had left Gabriella with both Brass's business card and a number for a domestic-abuse hot-line. Probably a wasted effort on both counts, but at
least they had made the effort. Who knows? Maybe it would make a difference somewhere down the road. Gabriella was still young enough to write Gonch off to experience. Catherine thanked God that none of Lindsey's boyfriends had ever hit her. At least as far as she knew.

The traffic inched along. Stuck behind a slow-moving Deuce bus making frequent stops, they slowly left the south end of the Strip behind. Lady Liberty shrunk out of sight in the rear-view mirror. A giant neon Coca-Cola bottle reminded Catherine that she hadn't eaten for hours. Her stomach rumbled.

“I figure we go as far as the Sahara,” Brass suggested. “Then turn around and head back down the other side of the street.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she agreed. Beyond the Sahara casino, the big-ticket attractions gave way to a less touristy stretch of older motels, bars, and wedding chapels. They were unlikely to find Gonch working that far up the boulevard, if he was even in the vicinity. If what Gabriella had told them was true, he was going to be where the heavy pedestrian traffic was.

In the meantime, they had several more blocks to go before they had to try to turn around. The Venetian mega-resort loomed ahead on the right, further adding to the Strip's giddy sense of geographical dislocation. No expense had been spared to re-create the postcard-pretty charm and glory of Venice, Italy. Spotlights showed off its ornate marble towers and facade. Singing gondoliers, many of them imported straight from the genuine article, serenaded boat-loads
of huddled tourists as they paddled their sleek black gondolas around a sparkling blue lagoon. A paved walkway, flanked by towering white pillars, bridged the pool, connecting the sidewalk to the colonnaded entrance of the Doge's Palace. Men and women swarmed across the bridge, eager to simulate a European vacation, or perhaps just get a little shopping or gambling in. Security guards in imitation Venetian police uniforms were on hand just in case the party got too rowdy. A multistory hotel rose between the bridge and another palace, which housed the Vegas branch of Madame Tussaud's.

Great,
Catherine thought.
Another wax museum.

Three nights had passed since the
Shock Treatment
shooting and they still couldn't say for sure whether it had been an accident or not. She wondered if maybe they were wasting their time. Suppose the shooting was just what it had first appeared to be: an unfortunate collision between a sadistic prank and a scared young woman with a gun?

“Say, Jim,” she began, even as she continued to scrutinize the faces outside on the Strip. “What's your current take on this whole . . . hang on!”

A strapping figure caught her attention. The man, whose chiseled features bore an unmistakable resemblance to the photo on her lap, was handing out flyers on the sidewalk in front of the Venetian. A snug black sweatshirt, advertising a bar named Headlights, showed off his buff physique. Tight jeans and comfortable sneakers were well-suited to traipsing up and down the length of the Strip. He thrust his hand-bills at every passing pedestrian, not taking no for an answer. The flyers were a lurid shade of pink.

Looks like our boy
, Catherine thought. According to Gabriella, Craig Gonch now spent his nights drumming up business for the topless place where they met. Not exactly the most promising of careers, but a buck was a buck. Catherine guessed that the gym had paid better.
Too bad he couldn't keep his hands off the clientele.

She rolled down the passenger-side window for a better view. Keen blue eyes compared the flyer guy's scruffy good looks to the driver's license photo.

It was a match.

“Over there on the right,” she alerted Brass. “You see him?”

“Roger that.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to ID Gonch as well. “Nice. Good eyes, Willows.”

“Tell it to my optometrist.”

Horns blared behind him as he abruptly pulled over to the curb and hit the brakes. Catherine was already unbuckled and out of the door before Brass killed the ignition. She wasn't about to let Gonch out of her sight. It would be too easy to lose him again in the neon-charged activity of the Strip. The cold night air came as a jolt after the car's heated interior. She was glad she had put on a jacket earlier.

Wonder if Gonch has his cell phone on him?

Intent on giving away his flyers, Gonch paid no attention to the parked Taurus. Catherine heard him pushing his spiel on men, women, and families alike. “Hottest girls in town!” he promised. A southern accent carried echoes of the menacing phone call Jill Wooten had recorded. “Open all night, 24/7!”

“Is there a buffet?” a vacationing senior citizen asked.

Brass quickly joined her on the sidewalk. They closed in on Gonch. Catherine let Brass approach from the south, while she circled north to head him off if necessary. Curious passersby parted to let Brass through as he held up his badge.

“Craig Gonch?” he called out. “LVPD.”

Gonch stiffened in alarm. Catherine knew he was going to rabbit even before he hurled an armload of glossy pink flyers in Brass's face, then bolted from the cop.

“Damn!” Brass swore, batting the tossed handbills away from his face. They fluttered to the ground, littering the pavement with lewd come-ons and snapshots of barely covered silicone. He trampled the flyers beneath his feet as he took off in pursuit. “Give it up, Gonch!” he shouted at the fleeing suspect before calling for backup on his phone. “Suspect is heading north on Las Vegas Boulevard toward Spring Mountain Road!”

Gonch barreled through the crowd. Startled tourists threw themselves backward against the guardrail between the sidewalk and the lagoon. An overweight sightseer, wearing the requisite baseball cap and fanny pack, didn't get out of the way fast enough and Gonch shoved him aside. The unlucky tourist tumbled onto the ground, spilling the better part of a Big Gulp onto the concrete. “Hey, what's your problem?” he hollered indignantly. “Douchebag!”

Catherine shared the sentiment. Gonch was rapidly moving up her shit list. He was making this way harder than it had to be.

“That's far enough, buster.” She moved to block his escape. She unzipped her fleece jacket to reveal the sidearm on her hip. Her hand rested on the grip of the weapon. “Down on the ground . . . now.”

Gonch froze, trapped between Brass and Catherine. She saw Brass coming up behind the fugitive, his scowling face flushed with anger and/or exertion. Huffing and puffing, he looked more than ready to give Gonch the third-degree right there in front of the Venetian. His ragged breathing made Catherine think Brass needed to log in a few more hours at the gym.
Too bad we didn't drag Nick along,
she thought. The brawny ex-quarterback was better suited to tackling runaway suspects, as he had proven on more than one occasion. Gonch was lucky not to be on the receiving end of one of Nick's takedowns.

“Don't make me repeat myself,” she warned.

Gonch looked about frantically, searching for a way out. Any hopes Catherine might have had that he was ready to surrender were dashed when he abandoned the sidewalk for the bridge over the lagoon. He made tracks toward the Venetian. She guessed that he was hoping to lose himself in the crowds swarming the resort's myriad shops and restaurants. Gonch wove through the people on the bridge, apparently gambling that neither Brass nor Catherine would open fire in such a densely populated area.

A pretty safe bet,
she admitted. Her gun remained in its holster.

No way was he going to get away, though. Chasing after him, she called out to the security guards posted at the opposite end of the bridge.

“LVPD! Stop that man!”

To her relief, the costumed guards surged onto the bridge. Gonch skidded to a halt, once again stuck with nowhere to run. Catherine and Brass sprinted toward him. “This jerk had better be guilty,” Brass panted. “Of something.”

A low railing ran along both sides of the bridge, which arched gracefully over the lagoon. A slightly off-key rendition of “O Sole Mio” wafted up from a gondola passing under the archway. Gonch ran to the rail. He peered over the edge.

Oh, for God's sake,
Catherine thought.
Don't tell me he's actually going to . . .

Sure enough, he vaulted over the railing. Gravity seized him and he plunged into a half-full gondola just as it emerged from beneath the shadow of the bridge. Watching from above, Catherine honestly couldn't tell if Gonch had deliberately landed in the gondola or if he had been aiming for the water instead. Either way, the desperate leap for liberty proved a bust. His crash landing capsized the gondola, spilling all concerned into the lagoon, which, thankfully, was a mere four feet deep. A huge splash pelted her face with water droplets. A teenage couple, who only seconds before had been enjoying a romantic boat ride, shrieked as they abruptly found themselves dumped into what was effectively an oversized wading pool. Scrambling to his feet, the soaked gondolier swung his oar at Gonch while swearing furiously in Italian. The wooden pole missed Gonch's head by a fraction of an inch. He stumbled backward, losing his balance and splashing back down into the pool. Spectators on the shore and bridge hooted and jeered at
the free entertainment. The tranquil lagoon was suddenly the hottest show on the Strip.

Catherine just shook her head.

I need a vacation. . . .

Brass joined her at the rail. “Is it just me,” he sighed wearily, “or are these punks getting dumber every year?”

“You do the math.” Catherine wiped the spray from her face. “Half the population is of below average intelligence.”

“Don't I know it,” Brass said.

They let the Venetian guards do the soggy work of pulling the irate gondolier off Gonch. The guards waded into the lagoon to retrieve the drenched fugitive, who appeared to have finally had the wind knocked out of him. None too gently, they dragged him to the sidewalk. Sirens and flashing lights heralded the arrival of a couple of LVPD patrol cars, responding to Brass's summons. The wet guards turned Gonch over to the cops, then checked on the upset teenagers, who were complaining loudly about getting dunked. Catherine expected the couple would get some vouchers and other freebies from the Venetian.

“Guess we go read Mr. Gonch his rights,” Brass said. He took a few moments to catch his breath before trudging away from the rail. “Let's hope this fishing expedition pays off.”

Catherine eyed their dripping quarry. “Well, if not, we can always throw him back into the lagoon.”

“I don't suppose I can get a towel?”

Gonch shivered in an interrogation room at police
headquarters, just up the block from the crime lab. He had exchanged his sodden street clothes for orange jailhouse attire, but his hair was still damp. A sullen expression marred his good looks.