"Have at it, then," Catherine said, gesturing toward the bits strewn across the table. "There are plenty to choose from."

"I did find one note that's intriguing," Greg said while Mandy picked up a few of the scraps with gloved hands and carried them away. "I mean, maybe they're all intriguing, but I kind of doubt it, except in the most abstract sociological way. But this one is different." He pointed to a sheet of paper larger than most of the rest, although it had been folded and crumpled down to the same small size as the other bits.

"Does that mean you can read it?"

"Some of it. The pieces of paper are mostly scraps of whatever the guy had available to write on. The margin of a newspaper, the back of an envelope, a cash-register receipt, whatever. Apparently, he had a lot of thoughts he wanted to get down on paper. But this one he carried around for a long time, and at least at one point, it was a contract."

Catherine was surprised by this revelation. "A contract? What do you mean?"

"I might be using that term a little loosely," Greg said. "It's sort of a rental agreement. I can't read the names on it, because they've been written over too many times. But the gist of it is that whoever signed it down at the bottom is agreeing to abide by the rules of some tent city."

Another surprise. "There are a few tent cities around, and I've heard the population has been swelling as more and more homes have been foreclosed. Does it say which one?"

"It doesn't have a name – at least, not that I can see. But there's an address at the top, way out on Green Valley Parkway."

"I've seen that place, way out at the edge of the desert."

"Not quite as close to the edge as it used to be," Greg pointed out. " Las Vegas has spread into the desert, even there. But yeah, that's the place. It's been there for years."

"That's right, it's nothing new. Is there a date on he agreement?"

Greg bent closer and peered at the unfolded, scribbled-over sheet of paper. "May 2004," he said. "Guy's been there for a long time. If he still lives there."

"If. Let's get this stuff into QD, Greg, and then you can go find out."

Still convinced that the heavy gold lighter was the murder weapon, Ray decided to check it for fingerprints after all. It could be inspected more thoroughly back at the lab, of course, put into a fuming chamber where cyanoacrylate or crystal iodine vapors could reveal latent impressions. He thought about spraying it with ninhydrin, which was an easy process, but it could take a long time to work. The gold was a surface that would show prints well, and he thought that if he could lift some, maybe he could close this case in a hurry.

He set the lighter on a thin sheet of plastic, on top of a table, and dusted it with a gray aluminum powder, which showed up well on the highly polished gold. After the powder settled, he examined it closely with a magnifying glass. All he found were smudges, though, with not nearly enough ridge lines to offer anything close to a positive identification. After turning off the overhead light, he beamed an ultraviolet light at it to see if that would reveal anything he had missed.

No luck. Whoever had clobbered Robert Domingo had held on to the lighter long enough to wipe it down, before dropping it into the pool of Domingo's blood. Not even Domingo's prints remained on it, which they should have if he had used the thing to light the cigar he had smoked that evening.

Ray was disappointed but not disheartened. If the murderer had wiped the lighter, then whatever he had wiped it with would have some of Domingo's blood on it, maybe even some hair or bits of scalp. It would have taken a serious blow to kill Domingo, and the lighter was heavy, but there would have had to have been some muscle behind it, too. A blow like that would leave some trace on the weapon. And if the weapon had been wiped, then that trace would have transferred. Maybe he used a shirt, maybe a handkerchief or even a washcloth or towel taken from Domingo's house. Whatever he had used, Ray had not found it in the house, so the killer had taken it away.

When they found it, they would have a piece of nearly undeniable evidence to take to court. For an investigator with an appropriately open mind, even a lack of clues could be a clue.

He thought of another possible way to find prints on the lighter if fuming failed… although, like the fuming, it would have to be done at the lab. The oils and salts on a human hand could corrode metal, even with a brief touch, and that corrosion could be detected by applying extreme heat or an electrical charge to the metal object. Ray couldn't do it there, but Mandy might well be able to get something off the lighter yet.

The longer he spent in Domingo's house, the more Ray was convinced that the murder had not been premeditated. Someone had come there with Domingo or had come to the house after Domingo had come home from the nightclub. Domingo had let the person in, since there was no forced entry. They had talked, argued probably. And in the heat of emotion, the killer had picked up the lighter and caved in Domingo's skull.

He or she – but probably he, as the nature of the crime and the strength that would have been necessary to do such damage with the lighter indicated – had the presence of mind to wipe the lighter down, then dropped it in the blood. He might then have wiped the doorknob and anything else he had touched, as well. Ray would check those for prints next.

It all made for an interesting puzzle, though. Who would be emotional enough to be so swept up in the moment that he would bludgeon some one to death but then cool enough to remember to eliminate any traces of his visit? Most murder victims knew their killers, and the reasons for those murders involved money or love or some other strong emotion. This one looked to be the same in that regard. But most of those killers weren't clever enough to cover their tracks completely, no matter how hard they tried. They left prints, fluids, fibers. They left articles that belonged to them. Murder-like criminals of every stripe, usually weren't the smartest people. Ray couldn't keep track of how many cases he had heard of in which crooks essentially fingered themselves by doing things such as writing hold-up notes on their own deposit slips and passing them over the counter to a bank teller. In the case of murderers, especially of acquaintances or family members, sometimes they were so consumed by guilt that they simply turned themselves in. Often, they called the police on the spot, confessing to their crimes.

This one hadn't, and Ray had a feeling that he or she wasn't about to do so.

No, they would have to figure this one out the old-fashioned way, one piece of evidence at a time, amassing enough to make an airtight case.

Doorknobs next. Ray got busy.

Nick was collecting fingerprints off the plastic part of the Escalade's dashboard, on the passenger side, when a dark blue or black dust-caked pickup truck stopped at the end of the driveway. The fingerprints had shown up easily with titanium white powder, and he lifted them with tape, which he then closed over the attached acetate sheet. Beautiful prints, they would be easy to scan and compare with the APIS database.

He heard the truck first, then looked in the Escalade's rearview mirror and saw the occupants getting out. A truck driving up to the house of a murder victim so early in the morning was note worthy, to say the least. Nick put down the acetate and got out of the SUV, walking around to the Escalade's rear.

Two young men with long dark hair, shoulder-length in one case, stood at the end of the driveway, watching him. They met his gaze with aggressive stares. The one with longer hair was slender and wore a black T-shirt and jeans. The other was a bigger guy, barrel-chested and with a gut billowing his black, heavy-metal-logo T-shirt. His shorts were calf-length, black, and baggy, with what seemed like dozens of random zippers and straps on them. His arms were sleeved with monochromatic tattoos. Both looked Native American, with dark complexions, hair black and straight, slightly Asiatic facial structure. "Something I can do for you?" Nick asked.