“I wondered. It’s temporary, right?”

Grissom smiled. “Let’s just say that when it comes time for you to testify, it won’t stand up in court.”

“You can go now.”

Hodges looked up from his microscope. “The sample you brought me,” he told Catherine, “was crap.”

Catherine refused to rise to the bait. “I know that. What I need from you is what kind of crap it is.”

“Oh. Bovine. But what may be of more interest is what said moo-cow was eating that became the crap.”

“Which would be?”

“Eustoma exaltatum, or as it’s more commonly known, catchfly prairie gentian. A pretty purple flower, to be prosaic.”

“And what sort of distribution would the pretty purple flower have?”

“Sadly, widespread-at least in California. In Nevada, though, it’s made it onto the at-risk botanical list; there’s only one place it’s known to grow, out at Red Rock Springs.”

She nodded. “So I’m looking for a rural property near Red Rock. Thanks.”

“I live to please.”

“Okay,” said Greg. He and Catherine were in the layout room, comparing notes on the light table. “Here’s w hat I’ve got. Kanamu was hanging around the Burner community, but they weren’t comfortable with his drug use. He tried to convince an art collective that calls itself the Phyre Brigade to change gears on the art project they were already half-finished with to work on his, but they turned him down and turfed him because of the drugs.”

“What did he want them to build?”

Greg shrugged. “It changed depending on how high he was, but a volcano goddess was mentioned. And a fire-breathing shark.”

“What happened after they cut him loose?”

“Apparently he hooked up with another artist, but I haven’t been able to track him down. Still working on it.”

“All right. Lester Akiliano led me to three meth heads named Boz Melnyk, Aaron Tyford, and Diego Molinez. They didn’t have any problem with Kanamu’s using; in fact, I think they planned on going into business with him. According to them, he wasn’t interested.”

“You think they killed him over it?”

“Maybe-but the funds had to be for expansion, not start-up. They’re already in business.” She told him about the phossy jaw.

“Glow-in-the-dark grin, huh?” He shook his head. “Eit her of the other two have alibis?”

“Each other. Claim to have been up late watching movies at Melnyk’s place, which I’ve been to. A palace it isn’t. And I found something interesting-though disgusting-while I was there.” She described the garage, the crates of urine, and the manure sample that Hodges had analyzed.

“Red Rock Springs,” said Greg. “Can’t be that many properties within grazing range. Let’s do a title search and see what we come up with.”

“My turn to be one step ahead.” She handed him a printout. “Ready to go hang out with some livestock?”

“Okay, but this time I’m wearing boots.”

They knew they’d found it by the smell.

It was an abandoned barn, turned a faded gray by the elements, half its roof gone. Where a farmhouse once stood was only the crumbling remains of a stone chimney. A narrow dirt track led up to it, but there was no vehicle visible.

Catherine parked the Denali a good distance away and rolled down her window. The prevailing wind carried a chemical stink both she and Greg recognized immediately.

“Think anyone’s in there right now?” asked Greg.

“If they are,” she said, pulling out her cell phone, “they’re gonna wish they weren’t.”

The Las Vegas Police Department didn’t screw around when it came to meth labs. Even though the number of operati ons had dropped drastically in the last few years, largely supplanted by Mexican “superlabs” that smuggled their product across the border, there was always a local chemical entrepreneur willing to start his own enterprise-and the LVPD had learned not to take any chances with the smaller variety. The smaller the lab, the more likely it was run by addicts; that increased the danger on several levels.

Methamphetamine produced a wide variety of effects, both physical and psychological. Of the latter, paranoia and a compulsion to tinker-sometimes manifesting as dismantling and reassembling electronics-often led to a lethal tendency to build booby traps to protect the lab itself. Tweakers could be endlessly inventive: pit bulls, venomous snakes, even alligators were used as watchdogs; automatic weapons were trained on doors, triggers attached to doorknobs with fishing line; canisters of homemade poisonous gas or large amounts of high explosive were wired to light switches.

Those were the immediate threats. More indirect but no less dangerous were the large number of hazardous chemicals that could be present: solvents like acetone, ether, methanol, benzene, toluene, isopropanol; acetic, sulfuric, or hydriodic acid; amm onia, phosphine, or Freon gas; and metals like mercuric chloride, lithium, red phosphorous, metallic sodium, or potassium. The last two were especially dangerous-usually stored in kerosene, either one would react explosively when exposed to air or water.

Because of this, police responding to reports of a meth lab approached it with extreme caution. The large van trundling up the dirt track toward Catherine and Greg didn’t stop when it reached their position, but instead kept going to within fifty yards of the barn itself, where it opened and disgorged a team of six officers in hazmat suits, body armor, and full-face respirators. There was nothing but gentle rolling hills on either side of the structure and no trees at all. If the people inside tried to run, there was no place to run to.

The men quickly took positions around the building. Once they were in place, the officer in charge raised a bullhorn to his mouth: “ATTENTION! THIS IS THE LAS VEGAS POLICE DEPARTMENT. YOU HAVE ONE MINUTE TO EXIT THE BUILDING. COME OUTSIDE WITH YOUR HANDS CLEARLY VISIBLE AND LAY FACEDOWN ON THE GROUND.”

“Think they’ll put up a fight?” Greg asked.

“Depends on how stupid they are,” said Catherine.

The minute ticked by. There was no response.

“Might not be anyone home,” Greg murmured.

“ Lot of cooks do leave during the last forty-eight hours of the process.”

“Yeah, ’cause that’s when the whole thing is most likely to go boom.”

The officer in charge gave the signal, and his men started to move in, very slowly, with weapons drawn. They looked like futuristic storm troopers advancing on the site of a concealed UFO.

“I hate this part,” said Catherine.

“I know. No telling what’s in there…”

RILEY AND NICK LOOKED at Grissom expectantly. Grissom, on the other side of the light table, pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes.

“You okay, boss?” asked Nick.

“Fine. Just waiting for the migraine medication to kick in.”

“Hey, if you’ve got a migraine-” Nick began, but Grissom cut him off with a wave of his hand.

“No, Nick, really. Migraines are always worse if you delay too long before treatment; I think I caught this one in time.” He picked up a sheaf of papers from the light table and flipped through them. “Anyway, this can’t wait.”

“I heard about Doctor Robbins,” said Riley. “Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes. He’s still in considerable pain, but his heart rate’s stabilized. However, we can’t ignore the consequences of his being attacked.”

“What are we go i n g to do, fumigate the morgue?” asked Riley.

“The morgue isn’t the problem. This is the second insect-themed homicide within days; the planning, execution, and choice of victims suggest someone who’s more interested in the act itself than who he kills.”

Nick frowned. “Wait. You think our guy’s a serial? One whose weapon of choice has six legs?”