Shock Treatment (22 page)

“Heard about that trouble at the spa,” LaReue said. A thick Cajun accent suggested that he was
hardly native to Las Vegas. “Figured you'd come calling eventually. Surprised it took so long.”

Chip LaReue had the leathery, sunbaked complexion of someone who spent plenty of time outdoors. A safari jacket, equipped with plenty of bulging pouches, hung upon his compact, wiry frame. Strands of stringy brown hair poked out from beneath a faded tan baseball cap. A toothpick dangled at the corner of his mouth, below a drooping handlebar mustache. Lean and laconic, he appeared unintimidated by the CSIs. His hands were tucked into heavy work gloves.

“We've been busy,” Sara said dryly. “Tracking down everyone connected to that snakebite.”

“Bad business that,” LaReue commented. “Snakes have a bad enough rep, without that sort of nonsense making it worse. Just makes snake conservation all that harder.” He snorted in disgust. “People don't realize that snakes have more to fear from us than we do from them.”

“How's that?” Ray asked.

“No big secret,” LaReue said. “We encroach on their habitats, then go apeshit when we see them around. People kill snakes all the time, out of fear or spite or superstition. Snakes only attack people when they're disturbed.” He shook his head. “To be honest, I thought that snake massage thing was a dumb idea, but I figured, what the heck, a sale is a sale.” A grimace twisted his sandpapery features. “Serves me right for not listening to my gut.”

“Who do you usually sell to?” Sara asked.

“Private collectors, zoos, research labs, pharmaceutical companies.” He didn't bother to explain
why such institutions needed the reptiles. “The massage thing was a new angle, but it seemed harmless at the time. Especially since they didn't want any hot snakes.”

Ray guessed he didn't mean stolen. “Hot?”

“Venomous,” LaReue clarified. “You need a special license to deal in poisonous snakes.”

Sara briefly wondered if Grissom had such a license. “And how does one get one of those?”

“Varies from state to state,” LaReue said. “Here in Nevada, you need to demonstrate that you know how to properly handle and house the snakes.” He did not come off as evasive or defensive. “All my paperwork is in order if you want to see it.”

“Maybe later,” Ray said. “Right now we'd like to talk to you about the snakes you sold to The Nile.”

“Fine with me. I've got nothing to hide.” He glanced at his wristwatch. “You arrived just at feeding time, though. Mind if we walk while we talk?”

Ray glanced at Sara, who shrugged in assent. “Why not?” he agreed. “I admit I'm curious to check out your operation.”

“Didn't figure you for the squeamish types.” LaReue looked them over appraisingly. “Guess you couldn't be, considering your profession.”

He led them into the barn. Hanging plastic sheets kept in the damp atmosphere, which was generated by an industrial strength humidifier chugging away in one corner. Well-constructed wooden shelves supported rows of snake cages with sliding glass doors. Each shelf held three to four cages, depending on the size of their inhabitants. Shredded newspaper lined the floors of the cages. Electric heating
pads controlled the temperature. An incubator occupied another corner; snake eggs, neatly arranged in open plastic boxes, could be glimpsed through a glass plate in the door. A refrigerator possibly held supplies of antivenin. Ray was impressed at how clean, organized, and well-maintained the set-up was, almost like the crime lab.

A sizable variety of snakes was on display as well. Scanning the shelves, Ray identified rattlers, mambas, boa constrictors, pythons, kingsnakes, water snakes, racers, and even an Indian cobra. The sheer diversity of colors, sizes, and markings rivaled the garish carpets favored by Vegas casinos, and were much more pleasing to the eye. Ray would have liked to have browsed the display at leisure.

“Nice collection,” he said, impressed.

“Thanks,” LaReue replied. “Can't stock every breed of snake. That would take a space the size of a jet hangar. But I've got most of the popular varieties.”

“Including coral snakes?” Sara asked.

“A few,” he admitted. “But the snake that bit that rich lady wasn't one of mine.”

Sara didn't take his word for it. “How do you know that?”

“Check the inventory,” he challenged her. He ambled over to a counter and pulled out a drawer. Inside was a tray of dead white mice. He took out the tray and walked over to the first wall of cages. “There should be a record of every snake I delivered to The Nile. None of them hot.”

“We did that,” Ray divulged. He and Sara had compared Hodges's inventory of the confiscated snakes against the purchase orders Brian Yun had
provided. They had matched up perfectly—except for one anomaly. “There was an extra snake in The Nile's vivarium. A western coral snake.”

“Well, it didn't come from me,” LaReue insisted. He slid open the glass door on the first cage and casually tossed a lifeless mouse carcass inside. Not waiting to see if the cage's cold-blooded occupant accepted the offering, he closed the door and moved onto the next case. “All my coral snakes are accounted for.”

“Are you sure of that?” Sara asked, playing devil's advocate. “All these snakes wriggling around. Couldn't an extra snake end up in a shipment by mistake?”

LaReue shook his head. “No way.” He nodded at a separate set of shelves farther down the wall. Ray noted that the doors on those cages were equipped with showcase locks for extra security. “I keep the hot snakes in their own section, safely locked up. Don't see how a coral snake could have snuck in with the kingsnakes, unless it had taken lessons from Houdini. And, believe me, when I'm handling the hot snakes, I pay close attention to what I'm doing.”

Ray could believe it. “Ever been bitten?”

“You bet.” LaReue put the tray down on top of the incubator and peeled off his left glove. The top half of his index finger was missing. “Got sloppy with a Mojave rattler once. Had to watch my finger rot away to the joint.” He pulled the glove back on. “Won't make that mistake again.”

He went back to feeding the snakes. A hungry green boa eagerly swallowed the mouse, which gradually made its way down the snake's digestive
tract. You could track its progress by the lump it formed beneath the boa's hide. Ray was grateful that LaReue didn't provide his merchandise with live food. The CSI had a strong stomach, as LaReue had surmised, but that would have been a little disquieting, as he suspected Sara would agree. “Where do you get the mice?”

“I have my own breeding colony in the back room,” LaReue explained. “All perfectly humane.” He left the boa to finish digesting its meal. “'Course, not every species eats rodents. I feed mealworms and crickets to the insectivorous breeds, and goldfish to the water snakes.”

“And other snakes to the corals?” Ray asked.

“Yep. Little blind snakes, mostly. With maybe a shovel-nosed snake once in a while, just for variety.”

LaReue definitely seemed to know his snakes. It was hard to imagine that he could have shipped The Nile a coral snake by accident. “We're going to need to review your records,” Ray said nonetheless. “To make certain there are no discrepancies.”

“Knock yourself out.” LaReue didn't ask for a warrant. “I'll xerox everything after I finish up here. But I can tell you now, you're not going to find anything out of order. I run a tight ship.”

“So it appears.” Ray considered another possibility. “Suppose one did want to get a coral snake, possibly under the table? Are there any less reputable snake dealers out there?”

For the first time, LaReue looked uncomfortable. He turned his back on the CSIs, the better to concentrate on feeding his snakes. “I wouldn't know anything about that.”

“Why do I find that hard to believe?” Sara asked.

“I don't know,” LaReue said tersely. “You tell me.”

“I think what my colleague is saying,” Ray said, “it's that you strike us as a man who is very familiar with his field. Hard to imagine that you wouldn't know who the other players are.”

LaReue shrugged, his back still to his visitors. “I mind my own business.”

“Mr. LaReue,” Ray said firmly, “I'm going to ask you to put that tray down and give us your full attention.” They had tried being polite, but LaReue was clearly playing his cards close to his vest. Ray's voice took on a sterner tone, the same one he had once used when lecturing to an inattentive classroom. “We really need to get some answers here.”

The snake dealer turned around slowly. Irritation showed upon his grizzled face. “Look, I'm trying to be cooperative.” He placed the tray down on a nearby counter, perhaps a little harder than necessary. The dead mice bounced upon the metal. “I want to get this cleared up as much as anyone. My reputation's on the line.”

“Then don't hold out on us now,” Sara advised him. “Or maybe your name might end up leaked to the press. Not exactly good publicity for your business . . . especially if Ms. Segura doesn't survive.”

The last Ray had heard, the snakebite victim had yet to regain consciousness. Artificial means were still being employed to keep her breathing.

LaReue's face hardened. “You threatening me?”

“Who, me?” Sara professed innocence. “I'm just saying that the longer this case drags on, the harder it's going to be to keep your name out of this.”

Ray tried a softer approach. “All we want is to find out where that hot snake came from. You said it yourself: incidents like this reflect badly on your industry. If there's a bad apple, you owe it to yourself to expose him.”

A long minute passed as LaReue mulled the matter over. Ray wondered what was behind the man's reticence. Professional loyalty to a fellow dealer, or fear of retribution?

Who was he protecting? And why?

“All right,” LaReue said finally. “There is this one guy. I have no idea if he has anything to do with this whole mess, but if you were looking to get your hands on a hot snake, without leaving any sort of paper trail behind, he's the guy you'd want to talk to.”

Now we're getting somewhere,
Ray thought. “What's his name?”

“Fang,” the snake dealer said. “Fang Santana.” He frowned, like he already regretted spilling the beans. “Just don't tell him I sent you.”

“G
EE
,” A
RCHIE SAID
. “Guess I should have sold tickets.”

Catherine chuckled dryly. “You know us, we're suckers for a good spectrographic voice analysis.”

The CSIs crowded into the dimly lit A/V lab. Catherine stood directly behind Archie's workstation, while Nick and Greg looked over her shoulder. Glowing sonograms coursed across the lab tech's monitor.

“Seriously,” she added. “The media is breathing down our necks on this case, which means Ecklie is, too.” She suppressed a yawn; this was her second double shift in a row. “Anything you can do to throw some light on the particulars would make all our lives easier.”

Another day had passed since she and Brass had interrogated Craig Gonch. She had managed to squeeze in a few hours of sleep this afternoon only to find Conrad Ecklie waiting for her when she reported back to work in the evening. His new
responsibilities as undersheriff had not mellowed her prickly, autocratic boss; if anything, he was even more concerned with politics and public relations than before. Still, she conceded, at least he wasn't a murderous S.O.B. like the previous undersheriff. The one who had killed Warrick.

Ecklie only wanted results, not blood. As he had made abundantly clear.

“Where are we on the Matt Novak case?” he had demanded, barging into her office without asking. As ever, his saturnine features were less than supportive. A dark, conservative suit made him look more like an undertaker than a crime scene investigator. “Everybody from CNN to
Access Hollywood
is demanding an update, and City Hall wants to know if we're going to press charges.”

“Tell them to increase our budget,” Catherine had said. “You know we've been short-handed since Riley left. And Sara and Ray are tied up with another case.”

“Yes, I heard. The snake thing.” He plopped down into a chair. “Look, Catherine, I don't need to remind you that the city has put a lot of time and effort into encouraging movie and TV crews to shoot in Vegas. It's good for the economy and for tourism. So I really need to know: is this going to get ugly or not?”

She gestured at the bulging file on her desk. “We're making progress.”

A veteran criminalist himself, Ecklie knew just how little that empty phrase could mean. “That's not good enough,” he said. “We can't keep the press and Hollywood hanging. You need to wrap this up, one way or another.”

“You want it fast,” she asked, “or do you want the truth?”

“I want the truth . . . fast.” Rising to his feet, he shook
his head in disappointment. “You know, Catherine, I always thought you had a better grasp on how the system really worked than your predecessor. Right now, though, you're reminding me an awful lot of Grissom.”

Catherine shrugged. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Don't,” he said curtly. “Get me an answer, ASAP.”

“Understood,” Archie said, bringing her back to the present. “I just hope you're expectations aren't too high. Voice analysis is not an exact science. There are no sure things, especially not if the caller is making an effort to disguise his voice.”

“Caveats duly noted,” she said. “What have you got for us?”

“Well, first off, Craig Gonch may have an alibi.”

“Huh,” she reacted. “How do you have an alibi for a phone call?”