Double Dealer

Warrick looked at his watch and laughed once and grinned. "Overtime, I guess. I was working on stuff, lost track. I've got something I need you to do."

Skeptical, Brass asked, "What?"

The CSI explained about the running shoes and the different retailers.

"All right, I'll look into it. You going home?"

Shaking his head, Warrick said, "No. I'm going to the Beachcomber to look at some more tapes."

"Cheaper than Blockbuster. Grissom still here?"

Warrick nodded back down the hall. "Yeah, we're all still here. Somethin' about these cases, you know, intertwined like they are-it's like a bug we all caught. Can't shake it."

Warrick disappeared one way down the hall, Brass continued the other. He finally caught up with Grissom in the break room. They sat on opposite sides of the table.

Grissom took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked at Brass. "So-tell me about our friend Brian."

Brass gave him the whole story, concluding, "The sheriff's hot to trot to close this case-these cases. Show the tourists we're on top of it. Show the citizens he's a great man."

Grissom's half-smirk was humorless. "We'd like to solve it too, Jim. We're all working double shifts, what more-"

"Whoa, whoa," Brass interrupted, holding up a palm. "Remember me? I'm on your side."

Shaking his head, Grissom said, "Sorry. Stress. We're all feeling the pressure on this one."

"Warrick said it was like a sickness."

"The flu you can get over," Grissom said. "Search for the truth has no cure."

"Who said that?"

Grissom blinked. "Me."

Looking surprisingly fresh in a blue silk blouse and black slacks, Catherine strolled in, a devious smile making her lovely face even lovelier.

"I was wondering who committed the crime," Grissom said.

"What crime?" she asked.

"So you're the one that ate the canary."

Her smile widened, eyes sparkled.

Brass looked at her, then Grissom, then back at Catherine. "What?"

"She knows something," Grissom said, his own smile forming.

Pouring herself a cup of coffee, she said, "I know a lot of things."

"For instance?"

"For instance . . . I know that the same gun killed both Philip Dingelmann and Malachy Fortunato."

Brass said, "I don't know whether to laugh or cry. The same killer responsible for two murders, fifteen years apart?"

Grissom remained skeptical. "We can't say that yet, can we?"

"No," Catherine said, sitting down with them. "Not quite yet. But I can prove that both men were shot with the same gun."

Astonished, Brass said, "I thought you found a discarded gun barrel with the mummy."

She said, "We did. Riflings matched the bullets we found in Mr. Fortunato's head, too."

Brass struggled to follow. "But the bullets didn't match Dingelmann, right?"

"No match, that's right."

"So," the detective asked, "how can you say they were shot with the same gun?"

Grissom-arms folded, sitting back-just watched her work.

"Wait," Brass said, thinking back, "I've got it. This is just like Brad Kendall, the coffee shop guy."

"Not quite," Catherine said. "Even though Kendall had changed out the barrel, we proved he used bullets from a box in his possession, matching the manufacturer's imprint. We can't do that here-these bullets not only didn't come from the same box, they didn't come from the same manufacturer. Doubtful our man would be using bullets from the same box of ammo, fifteen years later, anyway, right?"

"Right, right, of course," Brass said, bewildered.

Grissom just smiled.

Catherine continued, "When a bullet is fired from an automatic what happens?"

Brass sighed. "The firing pin strikes the primer, the bullet fires through the barrel, the casing gets ejected."

"Bravo," Grissom said.

"Shut up," Brass said.

"There are," Catherine said, "three distinct marks on any shell casing fired from an automatic. Like you said, the firing pin strikes the primer. The extractor scratches the casing as it grabs it, and the casing gets slammed into the breech wall before it's sent sailing out of the pistol. Each of those strikes leaves its own individual mark that, like fingerprints, is different for every weapon."

Eyes narrowed, Brass said, "And you're saying . . ."

"The shell casings from the Beachcomber and the casing we pulled from Mr. Fortunato's driveway are from the same weapon."

Brass allowed a smile to form. "Can we use that in court?"

"There's no way of arguing against it," Grissom said.

"But couldn't they say this evidence is tainted, because one of the casings was buried under asphalt for years?"

Catherine said, "The defense can say that, but saying it's tainted won't make it so, and the argument won't fly."

"Why?"

"You familiar with these guys that collect guns from the Old West?"

Brass shrugged. "What about them?"

"Lately they've been using these same marks to verify the authenticity of pistols from Little Big Horn."

"Matching firing pins to shell casings?"

"Yeah," she said. "They've dug up shell casings from the battlefield and matched them to firing pins from pistols used by Custer's men. Those casings have been in the ground for over a hundred years. Our casing was protected from the environment between the gravel and the asphalt, and for only fifteen years."

"Science and history meeting," Grissom said, loving it.

Brass could only ask, "And this will work?"

"Yeah," Grissom said. "It will work fine."

"But we don't have the gun?"

"Not yet," Catherine said. "But now we do know we're only looking for one gun, and the chances are if this guy hasn't gotten rid of it in the last fifteen years, he won't get rid of it now."

Now Brass had something to offer: "It is amazing how some of these guys have a sentimental attachment to a damn weapon. It's put a bunch of them away."

Sara joined the group. Grabbing a soda out of the fridge, she plopped into the chair next to Brass. She looked at Catherine, but her question was for all of them. "Why would a hitman . . . gee, somehow that's fun to say . . . why would a hitman this successful have a five-year hole in his career? Then, suddenly, resurface now?"

"A hole?" Grissom asked.

"Yeah," Sara said, nodding, sipping her soda, "no one's reported anything on this guy for just over five years. It's like he fell off the edge of the world."

"Or went to jail for something else," Brass offered.

Grissom shook his head. "No, there would have been a set of prints to match, then."

Brass said, "Yeah, right. Didn't think."

"Maybe he was sick," Catherine tried.

"For five years?" Sara asked.

"Or retired," Grissom said.

They all paused to look at him.

"Anything's possible," he said. "No more guessing-keep digging."

"Well, fine," Sara said, "but where do you look on the Internet for retired hit men?" And she rose and headed back to work, her soda in her hand.

Brass blew air out and said, "I better get going, too. I've got to hit the retailers that sold those running shoes." He got up, looked at Grissom and shrugged. "I guess we do what the man says."

Grissom nodded. "The part about keeping the FBI at bay, I got no problem with."

The detective departed leaving Catherine staring at Grissom. "And what was that about?"

He tried to shrug it off, but she was having none of it.

"C'mon, tell me."

"Politics. Mobley wants to let Culpepper 'help' us, then he wants us to make the bust and cut the FBI out of it."

"Kind of a dodgy game."

"Yes, it is."

She smiled. "But then, Culpepper is a real son of a bitch."

Grissom managed to keep a straight face. "Yes, he is."

In a nicely padded desk-type chair, Warrick sat next to a security guard in front of the wall of Beachcomber monitors. The guard, a short Hispanic guy in his early twenties, had just loaded the tape that Warrick brought in, showing Peter Randall's back at the poker machine, and Philip Dingelmann's reaction to seeing Randall. Then Dingelmann disappeared around the corner, Randall got dragged back to the machine, pulled his card, then followed, disappearing around the corner as well.

They reran the tape and Warrick pointed at Randall. "I want to see anything else you might have with this guy in it."

The guard nodded. "He's here nearly every Monday and Wednesday."

Warrick's pulse skipped. "What was your name again?"

"Ricky."

"Hey, Ricky. I'm Warrick."

Pleased, the guard said, "Hey, Warrick."

"Tell me more about this guy, this regular."

"Well, he didn't come this Wednesday, but he's a guy who likes the kind of off-times. Even a big place like this, you get to spot the regulars-particularly when studying these monitors for hours and hours."

Dingelmann had been murdered Monday morning; and "Peter Randall" had missed his usual Wednesday round of poker-machine playing.

"This guy, Peter Randall, he's a regular?"

"I mean, I don't know the guy's name, but he's been around a lot-but just Mondays and Wednesday, early hours, like I said, off-times, slow times. Some people don't like a crowded casino."

Warrick had never had a preference, as long as the dice were rolling. "Ricky, can you show me some more tapes of Mondays and Wednesdays?"

"Warrick, don't get too excited. I don't wanna get your hopes up, man. You're not going to see his face on camera any other day either."

"Why not?"

Nodding again, the guard said, "I noticed him, all right? But he's pretty careful."

"If you never saw his face, how do you recognize him?"

"I don't know, man-watch these monitors long enough, you get a feel for it. I mean, the back of him always looks the same, right?"

"Oh-kay," Warrick said.

"I mean his height, shape of his head, haircut, even the style of clothes . . . you just start to read people. Know 'em."

"Ricky, you ever get tired of this job, come see me where I work. I may have somethin' for you."

Warrick and his new best friend looked at a tape from the previous Wednesday, about the same time. Again, Randall sat at the poker machine, his back to the camera, obviously wearing a different sports coat. He never turned toward the camera and when they tried other cameras in the casino, he managed to avoid those too.

"How does a man come in here every day and never get his face on a camera?"

Ricky shrugged. "Beats me."

Warrick rolled his eyes. The guard had been right though, Randall came in every Monday and Wednesday; and his hair, frame, style of dress, made it easy enough to spot him, when you knew what you were looking for. They watched tapes for the Monday before the murder, and of the week before that, loading multiple tape decks of multiple angles on the casino, and Randall always showed up.

He didn't always play the same poker machine, but he never went to the tables where he would have to interact with a live dealer. In fact, he usually stuck to the row of poker machines closer to the back door. Monday, Wednesday, week after week, he came. He played for about two hours, then he left. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. Either way, the next Wednesday, the next Monday, there he was again. And never once did the son of a bitch show his face on any camera.

Todd Oswalt, the slot manager, stuck his head in once to ask how it was going.

"We're still working," Warrick said. "Still looking. Ricky's a big help-Ricky's the man."

Ricky beamed, and Oswalt said, "Glad to hear it-was that address a help?"

"Everything's a help, sir. But the maildrop he already abandoned. And the address he gave those people was for a street that doesn't exist."

Blond Oswalt in his navy blue suit shook his head and tsk-tsked. "Well, best of luck, Detective Brown."

Warrick didn't correct him. "I'm about due for some luck, sir."

Oswalt ducked back out.

They were five weeks back in the tapes now and Warrick wondered how many of these he should watch before he gave up. In truth, he wondered how many more of these he could take. It was like watching this bastard's boring life in reverse. On Wednesday of that week, Randall got up from his machine and disappeared off the screen. Warrick looked at the camera pointing up the main aisle-no Randall.

"Whoa, whoa! Where'd he go?"

Ricky shook his head as if he had been daydreaming. He swiftly scanned all the screens, finally spotting their man in the frame in the lower right hand corner.

"He's over there," Ricky said, pointing. "Just using the ATM, is all."

"Stop the tape," Warrick said quietly.

The guard was back in his own world and didn't hear.

Warrick said it again, louder. "Stop the tape, Ricky. Run it back."

Ricky did as told.

"That's it. We got him. Run it back."

Sitting up a little straighter, the guard again ran the tape back. Then, in slow-motion, ran it forward. They watched as Randall-back to the camera-used the ATM again.

"Yeah," Warrick said. "Yeah! What bank owns that ATM?"

Ricky shrugged. "I don't use the ATM here. I'm sure Mr. Oswalt would know."

"Get him. Please."

It took the slot host almost ten minutes to return to the security room, but Warrick didn't care-he had a clue.

Finally, Oswalt trudged in. "Yes, Detective Brown, what is it?"

"What bank owns this ATM?" Warrick asked, pointing at the frame.

"Uh, Wells Fargo. Why?"

"Mr. Oswalt, thanks." Warrick patted the guard on the shoulder. "Ricky, muchas gracias for your help, man. And you can take that to the bank."

"Hey, I remember that show," Ricky said, with a grin.

But Warrick was already gone.

11

NICK LEANED OVER TO OPEN THE DOOR FOR SERGEANT O'Riley, who hopped into the Tahoe for the ride to Marge Kostichek's. As they rolled across town, O'Riley made a point of studying the features of the SUV. "Nice ride," he said at last.

Nick nodded.

O'Riley shifted his beefy frame in the seat. "Lot better than those for-shit Tauruses they make us drive."

Stokes refused to rise to the bait. Though the crime lab unit had helped Homicide solve numerous cases, O'Riley and many of his brethren referred to the CSIs as "the nerd squad" behind their backs. Harboring a feeling that down deep O'Riley longed for the good old days when a detective's best friend was a length of rubber hose, Nick asked, businesslike, "What was that address again?"

Pointing up ahead, O'Riley said, "Two more houses-there on the left."

Pulling up in front of a tiny bungalow with peeling pale yellow paint and two brown dead bushes that needed removing, Nick parked the Tahoe facing the wrong way. The whole neighborhood looked as though it could use a coat of paint and some TLC. The scraggly grass was almost as brown as the bushes, and as they got closer Nick could make out where the stoop had started to draw away from the house, as if making a break for it. With O'Riley in the lead, they walked up the cracked-and-broken sidewalk and the two crumbly concrete stairs, the detective ringing the bell, then knocking on the door.

They waited-no answer.

O'Riley rang again, knocked again, with the same lack of success. O'Riley turned to Nick, shrugged elaborately, and just as they were turning away, a voice blared from behind them.

"Well, you don't look like Mormons!"

They turned, Nick saw a squat woman in a hot pink bathrobe and curlers.

"We're with the police, ma'am," O'Riley said, holding up his badge in its leather wallet. "We'd like to talk to you."

Waving an arm she announced, as if to the whole neighborhood, "Better get your asses in here then, 'cause I'm not staying outside in this goddamn heat!"

With arched eyebrows, Nick looked at O'Riley and O'Riley looked at Nick; whatever unspoken animosity might been between the cop and the CSI melted in the blast-furnace of this woman's abrasive personality. Nick followed O'Riley back up to the house and through the front door, glad to let the cop take the lead.

Little eyes squinted at them; her curlers formed a grotesque Medusa. "Don't just stand there! Close the damn door. Do I look like I can afford to air-condition the whole goddamn city?"

"No, ma'am," O'Riley said, the idea of a rhetorical question apparently lost on him.

Closing the door, Nick moved into the pint-sized living room next to the king-sized detective. Looking around, he couldn't help but feel he had just stepped into an antique mart-and a cluttered one at that. A maroon velvet chaise longue stood under the lace-curtained front window. Next to it, a fern stretched toward the ceiling, threatening to outgrow its pot. The room also contained two tall cherry end tables with doilies on them, a nineteen-inch TV on a metal stand, and the oversized Barcalounger tucked in a corner. In the opposite corner was a writing desk, and everywhere were stacks of things-TV Guides, women's magazines, antiquing newsletters, newspapers, mail.

O'Riley, rocking on his feet, said, "Are you Marge Kostichek?"

"That's the name on the mailbox, isn't it? Aren't you a detective?"

"I'm Detective O'Riley," he said, either ignoring or not recognizing the sarcasm, "and this is CSI Nick Stokes."

"Cee ess what?"

Nick amplified: "Crime Scene Investigator."

"Why, is it a crime to be a goddamn slob, all of a sudden?"

"No, ma'am," O'Riley said, flummoxed. "What I mean is, ma'am-"

"Let me see that goddamn badge again. You can't be a real detective."

Flustered, O'Riley was reaching for the badge when the woman grabbed his arm.

"I'm just pulling your pud, pardner." She laughed and various chins wiggled. "A big dumb boy like you couldn't be anything but a cop."

Nick had to grin. In spite of himself, he was starting to like this cranky old woman, at least when she wasn't on his ass.

"We'd like to ask you some questions," O'Riley said.

"I didn't figure you stopped by to read the meter."

Listening, Nick began to prowl the room-just looking around, stopping at this pile of magazines and mail and that, snooping. It was his job.

O'Riley was saying, "We'd like to ask you about Swingers."

"Oh, Jesus Christ on roller skates," she said, plopping into the Barcalounger. "I've been outa the skin racket for years now. I figured this was about that damned dog, two doors down! Goddamned thing won't shut the hell up. Bark, bark, bark, all the time, yapp, yapp, yapp. Isn't there a law against that crap?"

"Well . . . " O'Riley said.

"Actually," Nick said, back by the writing desk, "we're here about a girl who used to dance at your club."

"Just make yourself at home, good-looking. You gotta pee or something?"

"No, ma'am."

"Are you nervous? Why don't you light in one place?"

"Yes, ma'am. About that girl, at Swingers . . ."

She waved a small pudgy hand. "Been a lot of them over the years. Hundreds. Hell, maybe thousands. They don't keep their looks long, y'know-small window, for them to work."

From the file folded in half in his sport-coat pocket, O'Riley pulled out the photo of Joy Starr and handed it to the woman.

Nick noticed her lip twitch, but she gave no other outward sign that she might recognized the girl.

"Joy Starr," O'Riley prompted.

Ms. Kostichek shook her head. "Don't remember this one."

Interesting, Nick thought: suddenly no wise-ass remark.

O'Riley pressed. "About sixteen years ago."

She shook her head some more.

"Her real name was Monica Petty. She disappeared . . ."

Marge Kostichek cut him off. "A lot of them disappeared. Here one night, gone the next. Met some guy, did some drug, had a baby, overdosed, here a sad story, there a happy ending, they all had one or the other. So many little girls with nothing but a body and face to get 'em somewhere, hell-how could I remember 'em all?"

Nick, still poised at the writing stand, said, "But you do remember this girl."

The old woman looked at Nick and suddenly her face froze, the dark eyes like buttons. "Why don't you come closer, Handsome? Where I can hear you better?"

The better to see you with?

Something about this "granny" struck Nick funny-and something told him he was standing right where he needed to be. . . .

"I'm okay here, ma'am," Nick said. "The detective asks the questions."

The eyes tightened; something was different in that face now. "I musta been dreamin', then, babycakes, when you asked me that shit?"

O'Riley said, "Please take another look at the picture, Ms. Kostichek."

Giving it only a cursory glance, she said, "Don't know her, I said. Said I didn't, and I don't-if she worked for me fifteen, sixteen years ago, why the hell are you askin' about her now?"

Nick, without turning, glanced down at the writing desk. Numerous piles of opened letters, back in their envelopes, were stacked here and there, overlapping, haphazard. Private correspondence, bills, even junk mail . . .

The woman thrust the photo out for O'Riley to take; he did. "Why are you digging up ancient history, anyway?" she asked. Almost demanded.

Nick didn't handle a thing-but his eyes touched the envelopes on the desk.

O'Riley said, "Her name has come up in the investigation of another case."

A cloud crossed the old woman's features and disappeared. But if she wondered what that case was, she didn't ask.

O'Riley cleared his throat. "Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Kostichek."

On the far side of the desk, barely within his eyes' reach, he saw it: a letter postmarked in Los Angeles, the name on the return address . . .

. . . Joy Petty.

Nick froze, only for an instant, then turned back to the frumpy, feisty woman. "Yes, thank you, ma'am."

"Don't let the door hit you on the ass on the way out, fellas," she said.

He followed O'Riley, as they let themselves out, O'Riley pulling the door shut behind them. Inside the Tahoe, Nick put the key in the ignition, but made no move to start the vehicle.

"Something on your mind, Nick?"

He turned to the detective. "She's lying."

With a shrug, O'Riley smirked, said, "You think? That old broad wouldn't give a straight answer to a Jeopardy! question."

"I don't think, Sarge-I know."

The creased face under the trim crew cut tightened with interest. "How?"

"Her mail. You see all those piles here and there and everywhere?"

"She's a pack rat-so what?"

"So back on that writing table, on top of one of those piles, was a letter from a 'Joy Petty.' What do you suppose the odds are that she knows a Joy Petty who isn't also the Joy Starr whose real name is Monica Petty?"

O'Riley's eyebrows had climbed. "I think the odds are we're goin' right back up there, right now."

"Can we do that?"

"Was the letter out in plain sight?"

"Oh yeah."

"Then watch and learn, bucko."

O'Riley was out of the SUV and going back up the sidewalk before Nick could pull the keys from the ignition. The CSI trotted to catch up, the pissed-off detective already ringing the bell, then throwing open the screen door and knocking on the inside door before Nick even got to his side. Just then, Marge Kostichek jerked the door open.

"What now?" she bellowed. "We already gave!"

"That's what you think, lady." Getting right in her face, O'Riley bellowed back, "Why the hell did you lie to us?"

She backed up, inadvertently making room for both men to re-enter the house.

O'Riley glared at her, saying to Nick. "Show me."

Pulling on a latex glove even as he moved, Nick went to the writing desk and picked up the top letter on the stack of mail.

"Hey," she shouted, "you can't do that! That's private property! Where's your warrant?"

"Evidence in plain sight, ma'am," O'Riley said. "We don't need a warrant."

Nick came over to the hair-curled harridan and held up the letter from Joy Petty for her to see. "You want to explain this to us?"

The old woman took a step back, then stumbled over to her Barcalounger and sat heavily down, with an inadvertant whoopee-cushion effect. It might have been funny if she hadn't been crying.

Sara Sidle and ponytailed Detective Erin Conroy caught up with Warrick in the lobby of the Wells Fargo branch on South Nellis Boulevard. The air conditioning seemed to be set just below freezing; even though it was July in the desert, the tellers all wore sweaters.

"I've got another shot at getting our guy," Warrick said.

Professional in a white pants suit, Conroy lifted an eyebrow. "Is this going to be like the mailbox place?"

He looked for evidence of sarcasm in her voice and didn't find any. "I hope not, but who knows."

"Nice piece of work, Warrick," Sara said, meaning the ATM machine.

"Thanks. I haven't been this lucky in a casino in a long time."

A plumpish woman of forty sat behind the receptionist's desk talking on the phone. When they approached, she held up a finger: she'd be with them momentarily. . . . At least that's what Sara hoped she meant. In her lightweight short-sleeve top, Sara felt like she was standing in a meat locker.

Finally, the receptionist hung up the phone and turned to Warrick as if the two women weren't even there.

But it was Erin Conroy who held up her badge, and said, "We need to speak to whoever is in charge of ATM transactions."

The woman checked a list on the pullout shelf of her desk. "That would be Ms. Washington." She picked up the phone, pressed four numbers and said, "Ms. Washington, there are three police officers here to speak to you." She listened for a moment, hung up, and said to Warrick, "She'll be right with you."

Sara was seething but she didn't bother to correct the receptionist's description of all three of them as police officers.

They'd waited less than a minute before Sara heard the staccato rhythm of high heels on the tile floor to her right and behind her. Turning, she saw a woman in a conservative black suit approaching-with expertly coifed black hair, jade eyes, and a narrow, porcelain face. The woman held out her hand to Conroy and offered all three a wide smile. "Good morning-I'm Carrie Washington. May I help you, Officers?"

Conroy showed her credentials and shook the woman's hand. "I'm from Homicide, and Warrick Brown and Sara Sidle, here, are from the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. We need to talk to you about one of your ATM customers."

"Fine. Quite a crowd of you, for one customer."

"Overlapping interests in our investigation," Conroy said.

Ms. Washington clearly didn't understand a word of that-Sara barely did herself-but the woman, crisply cooperative, said, "Won't you follow me to my office?"

In the smallish suite at the far end of a wide hallway off the lobby, Carrie Washington offered them seats in the three chairs that faced her large oak desk. A computer sat on the credenza next to it, a potted plant perched in the corner, and two picture frames were placed at the edge of her neat desk, facing away from them.

"Now," she said, steepling her fingers. "How may I help you?"

Conroy nodded to Warrick to take the lead. He did: "We need to know the name of one of your ATM customers."

Ms. Washington's expression conveyed her discomfort. "I'm afraid that would be-"

"It's quite legal," the homicide detective said, and withdrew the document from her shoulder-slung purse, and tossed the warrant onto the desk. "Judge Galvin has already authorized the action."

The woman put on a pair of half-glasses, read the warrant. "Tell me what you need."

"The ATM at the Beachcomber," Warrick said, "that's yours?"

Ms. Washington frowned thoughtfully. "I can find out-but I assume you already know as much, or you wouldn't be here in such an impressive array."

"It is your ATM," Conroy said.

"Five weeks ago," Warrick said, reading her the date from his notes, "your machine was accessed at five thirty-nine A.M. Can you tell me who did that?"

Typing the information into her computer, Ms. Washington said, "You're quite sure about the time?"

Warrick nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"This is going to take a few minutes."

Conroy said, "That's fine. We'll wait."

O'Riley sat across from Marge Kostichek at the plain wooden table in the center of the interrogation room. She was no longer a sarcastic handful, rather a morose, monosyllabic interrogation subject.

Also in the cubicle were two other chairs, one on each side of the table, a digital video camera trained on the woman and an audio tape for backup on the table. A large wall mirror-nobody was kidding anybody-was really a window with one-way glass, on the other side of which were Grissom, Catherine, and Nick, who had already filled his boss and co-worker in on why he and O'Riley thought it best to bring the former bar owner in for more questioning.

The room they were in was small with no furniture. They stood there watching the interview in the other room.

"He's not getting anywhere with her," Grissom said.

"Maybe there's nowhere to get to," Catherine offered.

"No way," Nick said. "She knows something. That letter can't be a coincidence."

"Please," Grissom said. "Not the 'c' word."

Catherine seemed lost in thought; then she asked Nick, "Where's that letter now?"

"On top of my desk-why?"

She arched an eyebrow toward Nick, and Grissom noted it as well, as she said, "Remember the box of her husband's personal effects Mrs. Fortunato turned over to us?"

"Of course," Nick said.

Grissom was smiling.

Catherine said, "One of the things in that box is a letter to her husband . . . from Joy Starr."

Pleased, Grissom said, "This was the letter that made the police assume Fortunato and Joy Starr ran off together?"

"Yes," Nick said. "Am I missing something?"

"It'll come to you," Catherine said, mildly amused, her eyes alive with a fresh lead. "Get me your letter, I'll get mine, and meet me in the parking lot."

Nick was lost. "The parking lot?"

A slight grin tugged at a corner of Grissom's mouth. "I see where you're going, Catherine . . . nice thinking. But even if you're right, that won't completely settle the issue. Nick, where did you say that letter was postmarked?"

"L.A. Within the past month."

"I'll contact the California DMV," Grissom said. "Let's see what we can find out about Joy Petty. Then I'll call Jenny Northam and tell her you're on your way."

"Jenny who?" Nick asked. "On our way where?"

"Jenny's a forensic document examiner," Grissom said. "A fine one-she'll tell us whether or not 'Joy Petty' wrote both letters."

"And if she didn't?" Nick asked.

"Then," Catherine said, "the fun begins-let's get going."

The bank air conditioner continued to work overtime and even the unflappable Warrick looked chilly after twenty minutes of waiting in Carrie Washington's office. The small talk had evaporated and the four of them sat in awkward silence.

At last, the phone rang. Everyone jumped a little, the shrill sound serving as a release for the tension that had filled the room. Now, with the second ring, anticipation elbowed its way into the office.

Carrie Washington picked up the phone. "Yes?" She listened, and scribbled notes. "Address? . . . Employment?" One last scribbled note, and she hung up.

"Do you have something?" Conroy asked.

"Yes. The customer in question is Barry Thomas Hyde. He lives in Henderson, at fifty-three Fresh Pond Court. Owns and manages a video rental store-A-to-Z Video-in the Pecos Legacy Center. That's a strip mall at twenty-five sixty-two Wigwam Parkway."

Conroy wrote quick notes on the addresses; Warrick had them memorized already. He said, "Thank you, Ms. Washington."

"Will there be anything else?"

Conroy rose, and then so did Sara and Warrick. The homicide detective said, "I think we've got what we need."

"We do what we can," Ms. Washington said, and something that had clearly been working on the woman finally emerged: "You said you were with homicide, Officer Conroy?"

"That's right."

"So this is a murder case."

"It is."

This seemed to impress the professional woman, and Warrick said, "That's why your help is so important. This involves a dangerous individual, still at large."

"Anything to help," the banker said. "Anything."

Anything with a warrant.

Sara fought the urge to sprint from this building, to stand in the sun and, with luck, regain some of the feeling in her feet.

"Holy shit," she said, once they were outside, "am I freezing."

Conroy laughed lightly. "Then it wasn't just me-my teeth were chattering!"

"That name and those addresses didn't warm you ladies up?" Warrick asked.

"If it's not another dead end," Sara said, "I'll be warm and toasty."

Warrick shrugged. "Let's go see."

As they walked to the Tahoe, which was parked nearby, Sara said, "I'll bring Grissom up to speed," pulling out her cell phone with gunfighter aplomb.

She got him at once, informed him they had a possible ID on the Deuce, filled him in on the details.

"We'll try the house first," Grissom said. "Meet me there ASAP-I'll have Brass with me."

"We already have Detective Conroy with us."

"Good. If this is our man, he's a dangerous suspect."

Sara said 'bye, hit END, and filled Warrick and Conroy in.

"Anybody know Henderson very well?" Conroy asked, looking at the address.

"Not really," Sara said.

"Can't say I do," Warrick admitted. "We've worked a few crime scenes there. . . ."

"Well, I don't really know where this address is," Conroy admitted, gesturing with her notepad.

The absurdity of it hit them, and they laughed: three investigators and none of them knew how to find an address.

Sara, giggling, said, "Maybe we better get some help from dispatch."

"Just don't tell anybody," Conroy said.

" 'Specially not Grissom," Warrick said.

12

JENNY NORTHAM SHOOK HER HEAD, HER LONG DARK HAIR bouncing gently, then she looked through the microscope one last time.

"Well?" Catherine asked.

"No fuckin' way," Jenny said, her voice deeper than would be expected for a woman her size-barely over five feet, weighing in at maybe a hundred pounds. "Shit, guys, this isn't even close."

Jenny's office nestled in the corner of the second floor of one of the oldest downtown buildings just off Fremont Street. Tiny and slightly seedy, the office boasted apparent secondhand office furniture and carpeting dating to when the Rat Pack ruled the Strip. The back room, where Catherine and Nick had an audience with the sweet-looking, salty-speaking handwriting expert, was exactly the opposite.

Cutting-edge equipment lined three walls with file cabinets and a drafting table butted against the other wall. Two huge tables topped with UV, fluorescent and incandescent lights stood in the middle of the room. Nick and Catherine sat on stools near the walls while Jenny Northam rode a wheeled stool, rolling from station to station around the room, like she was piloting a NASCAR stock car.

"You're sure," Catherine said.

"Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Whoever wrote this letter . . ." She held up Joy Starr's vintage note to Malachy Fortunato. ". . . wasn't worried about being discovered. This can only loosely be termed a forgery-it's just some dumb shit signing this Joy Starr's name to the letter."

Catherine frowned. "That's the only possibility?"

"No-this letter . . ." The handwriting expert pointed to the letter taken at Marge Kostichek's house. ". . . could be the forgery. But any way you look at it, they weren't written by the same person."

The two CSIs watched as Jenny dipped the letter into a series of chemical baths, then set it to one side to dry. She did the same thing with the original note to Fortunato.

"While we're waiting," Jenny said, "let's compare the handwriting, using the two photocopies we made earlier."

Catherine sat on one side of the handwriting expert, and Nick on the other, as Jenny read slowly aloud the letter to Fortunato:

"My loving Mal,

Im so happy that were finally going to getaway just the 2 of us.

It will be great to be together forever. You are everything Ive always dreamed of. See you tonight.

Love you for ever

Joy"

The new letter from Joy Petty read:

"Dear Marge,

Thanks for the great birthday card. I don't know why you keep sending me money, you know I make plenty. But you're sweet to do it. I hope you've been thinking about our invitation to come over and stay with us for a few weeks. The guy I been living with, Doug, could even drive over and pick you up so you don't have to take the bus. It would be great fun. Please come.

Love, Joy"

"She's older now," Nick said, "her handwriting may have changed."

"Not this much," Jenny said. "Just not possible. Over the years our handwriting changes, granted. To varying degrees. But somebody's signature? That's something that people do not drastically change."

Jenny displayed the two letters side by side on the table. "Look at the capital 'J' in 'Joy.' "

They moved closer.

"This new one, the Joy Petty letter, the 'J' is extremely cursive. She started at the line and made this huge fuckin' loop that goes over the top line, then the smaller bottom loop that's equally full of itself. See how it goes down, almost all the way to the next line? This is somebody who craves attention-wants to stand out in the crowd."

Catherine gestured to the older document. "Tell us about the person behind this other signature."

Jenny pointed. "This is a scrawl. Almost looks like a kid did it. Very straight, more like printing than script. No way this is the same person. I don't give a shit how many years you put between 'em."

She went on to point out the capital "M" in "Marge," which was round and smooth, " Demonstrating the same pressure all the way through." The "M" in "Mal," however, was pointed, extra pressure at the joints of the lines.

Jenny shook her head. "Definitely two different writers."

Catherine smiled at Nick; Nick smiled at Catherine.

"The documents should be dry now," Jenny said, heading back over to the original documents. "Let's have a look." The expert positioned herself on one side of the table, Nick on the other. Catherine studied the photocopies a few more seconds, then followed, joining Nick on his side of the table.

"You dipped this in Ninhydrin?" Nick asked pointing at the note.

Shaking her head, Jenny said, "Nope-that's the old mojo."

Catherine said, "I remember reading in the Fortunato file that the lab tried that, back in '85, when they first found the note . . . but came up empty."

"Yes," Jenny said. "Though it was good in its day, even then Ninhydrin wasn't always successful. It worked well on amino acids, left on paper by people who touched it. But this new stuff, physical developer, it's the shit-works on salts left behind."

Nick was nodding, remembering something from a forensics journal article he'd read a while back. "This is the stuff the British came up with, right?"

"Right," Jenny said.

"Oh yeah," Catherine said, "finds way more prints than Ninhydrin."

"We've got something," Jenny said. "Look here."

The expert held up the original note: a black print, the side of the author's palm presumably, and several fingerprints in various places, dotted the page.

Jenny grinned. "Looks like the writer tried to wipe the paper clean of prints. These shit-for-brains never seem to grasp fingerprints are ninety-nine-and-a-half percent water. They're in the document, not on it."

Fewer fingerprints showed up on the new letter, but there were some to play with.

"Your fingerprint tech'll tell you these two prints don't match," Jenny predicted. "The letters were written by different people, and the fingerprints will prove it, as well as the handwriting differences. Additionally, the writing style-the amount of schooling indicated-also suggests two authors; but that's a more subjective call."

Catherine looked at Nick. "So, now what are you thinking?"

"We already knew that Fortunato didn't run off with the stripper."

"Right."

"We also believe that she's still alive and well and living in L.A. as Joy Petty."

Nodding, Catherine said, "Yes, and we should know more about that when we get back and talk to Grissom."

Nick got up, pacing slowly. "So we have a forged note from Joy to our victim, right around the time of his murder . . . but why? Why was such a note written?"

"Whoever hired the killing planted it, obviously," Catherine said. "And it worked-Fortunato's disappearance was dismissed as just another guy with a seven-year itch that got scratched by running off with a younger woman."

Nick stopped pacing, spread his hands. "So-mob guys hire the killing, and plant the note . . . or have it planted."

Catherine shook her head. "Doesn't make any sense."

"Why not?"

"Okay, look at it from the mob end of the telescope. You don't want anybody to know you killed this guy-you don't even want it officially known the welsher is dead. You instruct your hired assassin to hide the body where it won't be found for years, if at all, then you write this letter to make it appear Fortunato left town with his girlfriend."

"Yeah, right," Nick said. "That all hangs together."

Catherine smiled. "Does it? If you do all that, why do you allow your assassin to sign the body? Give it the old trademark double tap?"

"Why not?"

"Because if the body is found, you know damn well it's going to look like a mob hit to the cops. What did it look like to us?"

"But the Deuce, he's a mob hitter . . ."

"No, Nicky," Catherine said. "He's a freelancer. His best customers are organized crime types; but they're not necessarily his only customers."

Nick was seeing it now, shaking his head, disappointed in himself. "Grissom always says, 'assume nothing,' and what did we do? Assumed it was the mob."

"If it wasn't," Catherine said, "it was a perfect set-up for anybody who wanted Fortunato dead, for personal reasons or business or any motive. Already owing bookies out east, Fortunato was a sure bet to have a contract put out on him, if the mobbed-up casino owners knew he was embezzling from the casino. Instant blame."

"If somebody else hired the Deuce-who was it?"

"Ever notice every time we answer one question on this case," Catherine said, "we end up asking ourselves another, brand-new one?" She turned to the document examiner. "Jenny, how much writing would you need to find a match on these two letters?"

Jenny's answer was automatic. "When you get a suspect, don't take a handwriting sample-that's for shit. Get me a sample they've already written, grocery list, anything."

"And if we can't?"

"Then, what the hell-get a new sample." The petite woman shrugged. "There are some things you can't disguise."

"How big a sample?" Catherine asked.

"Couple of sentences, at least. More is better."

"Usually is," Nick said.

"Thanks, Jenny," Catherine said. "You're the best."

"Not hardly," she said. "My father was."

Catherine nodded. "We'll be back when we've got something."

Jenny returned to some waiting work. "I'll be here till five, and you can page me after that-long as you don't need me tonight."

"What happened to your fabled 'twenty-four-hour service'?" Catherine kidded her.

"Don't break my balls," Jenny said. "I got choir practice."

Catherine guided the wide-eyed Nick out of the office, and, as they drove back down the Strip, Nicky behind the wheel, Catherine punched a speed-dial number on her cell phone. It only rang once.

"O'Riley," came the gruff voice.

"Is Marge Kostichek still with you?"

"Yep."

"No change in her story?"

"Nope."

"You gonna cut her loose?"

"Yep."

"She's in the room with you right now, isn't she?"

"Yep."

". . . Okay, we're going to get you a court order for nontestimonial identification."

"Say what?"

"A writing sample and fingerprints."

"Oh! All right."

Catherine heard Marge Kostichek's voice in the background. "Aren't you the gabby one?"

Catherine said, "I'll call Grissom-you should have the paper you need in less than an hour."

"I like the sound of this." He disconnected.

So did she; then she called Grissom, who said he'd take care of the court order and get it to O'Riley.

"Have either of you slept?" he asked.

"Earlier this year," she said, with a sigh. "Haven't eaten in recent memory, either."

"Well, stop and eat, at least. We're going to get sloppy if we don't watch ourselves. . . . I'll handle things here for a while."

"Thanks. We'll be back soon."

She hit END, leaned back in the seat; she wished Grissom hadn't reminded her how tired she was.

"What did he say?" Nick asked.

"That we should eat."

"Good. I haven't eaten since I got a bear claw out of the vending machine about twelve hours ago."

The Harley-Davidson Cafe looked like a cross between a fifties style diner, a pub, and a high-end heavy metal club. Though she'd been past it many times, Catherine had never eaten here before-she seldom stopped at tourist places like this. She made a decent living, but not enough to regularly afford eight-dollar hamburgers, and still raise a daughter.

An American flag made out of three-inch anchor chain filled one wall, all the way up to the thirty-foot ceiling, well above the open second-floor game-room. A conveyer running through the restaurant, the bar, the gift shop out front and up to the second floor, carried twenty antique Harleys in a constant parade.

While waiting for Nick's lemonade and Catherine's iced tea, they talked the case.

"All right," Catherine said, "if the mob didn't kill Fortunato, who did?"

He thought about that. "How about the wife? Always the first place to look. And he was fooling around on her, after all."

"I don't know," Catherine said. "She seems pretty genuinely distraught, finally finding out he's dead . . . but her anger for Joy sure hasn't ebbed, over the passage of time."

"What about her boyfriend?"

The waitress set their drinks in front of them, took their order, and Catherine suffered through the requisite flirting ("Aikake" was a "beautiful name," according to Nick, and "Hawaiian," according to the waitress).

"You ready now?" Catherine asked as the waitress hip-swayed away.

"Sorry. The boyfriend?"

"Gerry Hoskins. Annie Fortunato claims he wasn't even in the picture when Malachy disappeared, but no one's checked the story."

"Someone should."

"That's why God made the likes of Jim Brass."

"I was wondering. Any other ideas?"

"How about Marge Kostichek?"

He shrugged. "She lied about knowing Joy, yeah-but what the hell motive could she have?"

Catherine sighed. "I don't know. How's that for an answer?"

Nick talked up over Steppenwolf. "What about Joy herself? She disappeared the same day-and until we found that letter we had no idea she was alive."

"But the letter from fifteen years ago probably isn't from Joy-why hire somebody killed, and then plant a forged letter that would've been more convincing had you written it yourself?"

"My head is starting to hurt."

Catherine was thinking. "I wonder if Grissom had any luck with the California DMV."

"Later," Nick said, gazing up hungrily.

Their food had arrived-whether it was the waitress or the cheeseburger that put that look on his face, Catherine didn't really care to know.

In less than a day they had gone from identifying the killer back to square-one as they tried to figure out who paid for the Deuce to whack Malachy Fortunato. Perhaps, Nick did have the right idea. For now, maybe she should just eat her chicken sandwich and try to forget about the sudden multitude of suspects they had.

After lunch, Catherine dropped Nick off at HQ, so he could begin going through the evidence again. Such a reappraisal was always a necessary aspect of scientific criminal investigation, because new information and perspectives continually put the evidence in a different light. But if they were going to catch the person who hired the killer, that would likely depend upon matching the fingerprints on the documents, and Jenny Northam matching the handwriting.

Catherine wasn't far from Annie Fortunato's residence when her cell phone rang.

"Hey, it's Nick. Grissom had Joy Petty's driver's license photo waiting for me here when I got back."

"And?"

"It's her, all right. Older, not so cute, but it's her-Monica Petty or Joy Starr or Joy Petty or-"

"A rose by any name." Catherine's hand tightened on the wheel of the Tahoe. "Tell O'Riley or Brass-maybe one of them can go out to L.A. and interview her."

"Speaking of O'Riley," Nick said, "he got the fingerprints and writing sample from Marge Kostichek."

"Good-just pulling up in front of the Fortunato house," she said. "Be back in an hour."

"Later," he said, and disconnected.

Catherine parked the car and walked up to the door, the smaller version of her field kit in one hand. A single dim light shone through the living room curtains. Catherine knocked on the door.

After a moment, Annie Fortunato opened the door slowly. Though she was completely dressed, in a blue T-shirt and darker blue shorts, she looked a little disheveled; as usual, a glowing cigarette was affixed to thin white lips. "Hi, Miz Willows-come on in, come on in."

Catherine stepped inside.

Smiling, Mrs. Fortunato asked, "What can I do for you?"

A smell Catherine instantly recognized-Kraft macaroni and cheese-wafted through from the front room; it wasn't long after lunch.

"I apologize for not calling first . . ."

"Hey, no problem." She took a drag off the cigarette. "I know you're trying to help."

"I'm glad you understand that. I need to get a set of fingerprints from you."

Her eyes wide, Mrs. Fortunato said, "Pardon?"

"I need a set of your prints-I need them from Gerry, too."

"Why?" The warmth was gone from the woman's voice now.

"We found fingerprints on the Joy Starr note. In your husband's effects?"

"Why on earth . . ."

Hoskins's voice floated in from the back of the house. "What is it, Annie?"

Mrs. Fortunato turned and, in a loud hard voice, called, "Catherine Willows is here-she needs our fingerprints!" Then she turned back to Catherine and rage tightened the haggard features. "You think one of us did it? . . . hell, I didn't even know Gerry then. He didn't even live in this town."

The awkwardness of it lay heavy on the shoulders of the already-tired Catherine. "It's just a formality really, to make it easier . . . you know, to eliminate you from the others."

But the more Mrs. Fortunato thought about it, the more worked up she got. "You think I killed my own husband? I thought you were my friend."

"Mrs. Fortunato . . ."

Smoky spittle flew. "You bitch! How dare you come around here?"

Catherine held up her hands, tried to explain. "Honestly, Mrs. Fortunato, I'm not even considering the possibility that you killed your husband," she lied. At this point, she only knew she didn't want to leave without those prints. "But when we catch who did this terrible thing, their lawyer is going to be looking for any way to get his client off-including implicating either you or Gerry in the murder."

Mrs. Fortunato stood there frozen; she had been listening, at least. Catherine, with relief, watched as the woman's anger evaporated.

Hoskins came in from the bedroom, still pulling on a shirt, as he tried to zip his jeans with one hand. "You all right?" he asked.

Catherine wondered if she'd interrupted something-dessert, after the macaroni and cheese, maybe.

"She wants to take our fingerprints, yours and mine, she says."

"What shit is-"

"So that if they catch whoever killed Mal, their lawyer won't be able to implicate us."

They both looked at Catherine now-suspicion in their eyes.

Wearily, she leveled with them. "Look-it's my job to find out who murdered Malachy. And you're both going to be considered suspects, now that his body has finally been found."

"So you are just a bitch," the woman said.

"Listen to me-please."

Hoskins wrapped a protective arm around Mrs. Fortunato. "How in hell you could ever think . . ."

"I'm not your friend," Catherine snapped. "And I don't have an opinion one way or the other. I follow the evidence-that's my job. That's why I was digging in your driveway last night-that wasn't for fun. The more evidence I have, whether it convicts or exonerates, gets me closer to finding out who murdered Malachy Fortunato, and bringing that person or persons to justice. Not just the hired killer, but the person-or persons-who hired him . . . whether it was the mob, you, or someone else altogether."

Stunned, the pair just stared at her. Hoskins kept his arm around Mrs. Fortunato, but said, finally, "How can we help?"

Sighing, relieved but weary, she started over: "I need fingerprints from both of you."

The man nodded. "Can you do it here, or do we have to go to the station?"

From her field kit, Catherine removed a portable fingerprint kit. "We can do it here." She wanted to kick herself for botching this so badly. It shouldn't have gone like this; thank God Grissom wasn't around.

Mrs. Fortunato seemed embarrassed. "I'm sorry for calling you . . . for what I said."

Managing to summon up a gentle smile, Catherine said, "I'm sorry if I misled you in any way. I know this isn't how you thought things would go . . . but I have to investigate everything, every aspect-good or bad, comfortable or uncomfortable."

"I know, I know. It's just all been so . . . emotional. Gerry and I are both on edge. I'm sure you folks are too."

Every day, Grissom would remind them, we meet people-on the worst day of their lives.

Catherine printed them quickly, now in a rush to get the hell out of there. She had just opened new wounds in this old affair, and she wanted to slip away as swiftly as possible.

As she finished and handed Hoskins a paper towel, to wipe off the ink, he said, "Thank you," and Catherine said, "No, thank you, Mr. Hoskins."

He walked her to the door. "Ms. Willows."

"Yes?"

"One favor?"

"Try."

He swallowed. "Catch the son of a bitch."

Her eyes met his and held. "Oh, Mr. Hoskins. I will. I will."

13

IN HENDERSON, WARRICK-WITH CONROY RIDING IN FRONT, Sara in back-guided the Tahoe down Fresh Pond Court, looking at street numbers; this was a walled (not gated) housing development, designed for, if not the rich, definitely the well-off. When the SUV pulled up at the house in question, Brass's Taurus was already parked in front, Grissom in the passenger seat. The two CSIs and the homicide detective got out and jogged up to the unmarked vehicle, Warrick taking the lead.

The stucco ranch was the color the local real estate agents called "desert cream," and sported the obligatory tile roof, with a two-car attached garage and a well-manicured lawn. Not many houses in the area could boast so richly green a lawn, or even grass for that matter; most front yards were either dirt or rock. This one rivaled a golf-course green, but instead of a flagged hole, a single sapling rose right in the middle. The rambling house had a quiet dignity that said "money"-no, Warrick thought, it whispered the word.

"Somebody made the American dream pay off," Warrick, leaning against the roof of the Taurus, said to his boss. "You been up to the door yet?"

His expression blank, Grissom still had his eyes on the place. He said, "When we got here. Nobody home. Where have you been?"

A sheepish half-grin tugged a corner of Warrick's mouth. "We kinda got lost."

"How many CSIs does it take to screw in a light bulb?" Brass asked, sitting behind the wheel.

"Two and a homicide detective, apparently," Sara said. "Conroy's with us."

"Hey, it's a new neighborhood," Warrick said. "Last time I was out this way, it was scrub brush and prairie dogs."

"Skip it," Grissom said. "Nobody home anyway."

Conroy had gone around the other side of the vehicle, to talk to Brass; she was asking him, "You want me to check around back?"

"We don't have a warrant," Brass said. "We're gonna step carefully on this-case like this, you don't want to risk a technicality."

"Almost looks deserted," Sara, sidling up next to Warrick, asked her seated boss. "Nobody home, or does maybe nobody live here?"

A dry wind rustled the leaves of the front yard sapling.

"Furniture visible through the front windows," Grissom said, "and the power company, water company, and county clerk all agree-this is the residence of one Barry Hyde."

"You don't let any grass grow," Warrick said.

"Except for occasionally getting lost, neither do you."

Warrick took that as the compliment it was.

"In fact, I think we've earned a break," Grissom said.

"Huh?" Sara said.

"I think we should go check out the new video rentals," Grissom said.

Warrick, pushing off from the roof of the Taurus, said, "Might be some interesting new releases, at that."

Conroy stayed with the Taurus, at the residence, while Brass piled into the Tahoe, in back with Sara, with Warrick and Grissom in front.

From the backseat Brass said, "If you'd like me to drive, I do know the way."

"I came up with this address," Warrick said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "I'll do the honors."

Barry Hyde's video store was close to his house, just a few turns away and onto Wigwam Parkway. Glad he had his sunglasses on, Warrick turned into the Pecos Legacy Center parking lot, where glass storefronts reflected bright afternoon sunlight. A-to-Z Video-a typical non-chain store of its kind with a neon sign in the window and movie poster after poster taped there-sat at the far end of the strip mall, a discount cigarette store its next-door neighbor.

Brass led the way into the video store, Grissom hanging back, in observer mode. To Warrick, it looked like every other non-chain video store he had ever been in-new releases around the outside wall, older movies in the middle. DVD rentals filled the section of the wall to the right of the cash register island, which was centered between the two IN and OUT doors. At the rear of the store was a door that presumably led to the storage area and the manager's office.

Behind the counter, in the cashier's island, stood the only person in the store, a petite American Indian woman of about twenty, a blue imitation Blockbuster uniform over slacks and T-shirt, her straight black hair worn short. Her name tag said SUE.

Fairly perky, and perhaps a trifle surprised to have customers, she asked, "Hi-welcome to A-to-Z Video. Are you looking for a particular title?"

"Sue, I'm looking for Barry Hyde," Brass said. He didn't get out his badge-this seemed to be a toe in the water.

The cashier smiled. "Mr. Hyde is out for the day. May I be of assistance?"

"When do you expect him back?"

"I'm sorry. He's not going to be available until after the weekend."

Now Brass displayed his badge in its leather wallet. "Could you tell me why he's not available?"

Seeing that badge, the cashier's cheerfulness turned to mild apprehension. "Oh, well-I'd like to help you, but I'm just . . . uh, maybe you should talk to Patrick."

Brass's melancholy face twitched a sort of smile. "And who is Patrick?"

"The assistant manager. He's in charge until Mr. Hyde gets back."

"I'd like to talk to Patrick. Is he around?"

"In the back," she said. She pressed an intercom button and said, "Patrick, someone to see you?"

The intercom said, "Who?"

"I think it's the police. . . . I mean, it is the police."

Patrick said, "Uh . . . uh, just a minute, uh . . . I'll be . . . uh . . . right . . . uh . . . out."

Four minutes later, more or less, Grissom was prowling the store like each video was potential evidence; but the others-Warrick included-were getting impatient.

Warrick realized that mid-afternoon wasn't a busy time for any video rental store; but this place seemed particularly dead. He noted the posted rental rates-they weren't bargains.

Brass leaned against the counter. "Sue-would you rattle Patrick's cage for me again?"

The cashier was about to touch the intercom button when the door in the back opened and ambling out came a zit-faced kid who seemed younger than the cashier. Bleached blond with a dark goatee and black mid-calf shorts, he had a sharp, short nose, small lips and green eyes with pupils the size of pinheads; but for the blue polo shirt with A-to-Z stitched over the breast pocket, he looked like a guitar player in a metal band.

As the kid stepped by him, Warrick noticed Patrick (as his name tag confirmed) smelled like a combination of Tic Tacs and weed. Which explained their four-minute wait.

The assistant manager said, "Can I . . . uh . . . like, help you?"

Brass seemed to be repressing a laugh; they'd sent for a manager and got back Maynard G. Krebs. "Are you Patrick?"

He thought about it. Then, without having to refer to his name tag, he said, "Yeah. McKee. Is my last name."

"Patrick, we'd like to talk to you about your boss-Barry Hyde."

The kid's sense of relief was palpable in the room and Warrick turned away to keep from laughing out loud. He pretended to study the new DVD release wall so he could still listen to the conversation.

Patrick asked, "What about Mr. Hyde?"

"He's out of town?"

Nodding, Patrick said, "Until Monday."

"Is Mr. Hyde out of town a lot?"

The kid had to think about this question for a while, too. Finally, he managed, "Some."

"For how long? How often?"

"He's been doing it since I've been here." Shrug. "Uh . . . eight months."

Brass shook his head. "That's not what I meant, Patrick. I mean, how long a period of time is he generally away?"

"Sometimes a couple of days, sometimes a week."

Warrick pulled a DVD box off the shelf and pretended to read the back-Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market. He knew Hyde couldn't be gone for long stretches, because the man had rarely missed his regular Monday and Wednesday visits to the Beachcomber.

Patience thinning, Brass was asking, "Do you know where Mr. Hyde is now?"

Patrick thought about that one for a long time too. "No. I don't think he said."

"What if there's an emergency?"

The kid's face went blank. "Emergency?"

"Yeah, emergency. He's the boss. Don't you have a number to call if you get robbed or a customer has a heart attack in the store? Or maybe a valuable employee, like you, has a family crisis?"

"Oh, sure," Patrick said.

"Could you give us that number?"

"Yeah-nine-one-one."

Brass just looked at the kid. Then he blew out some air, and called back to Grissom, at the rear of the little group. "You want to take a crack at this?"

Grissom put his hands up in surrender.

Warrick put the DVD box back-100% Multi-angle!!! -turned, and stepped forward. "Why don't you guys wait outside. I'll talk to Patrick."

Sara's eyes met Warrick's-they were on the same wavelength. She said, "Yeah, guys-I'll stay with Warrick."

Grissom, sensing something from his CSIs, turned to look at Brass, shrugging. "Any objection, Jim?"

"All right," Brass said. He said to Grissom, "Why don't you run me over to the house."

His car and Detective Conroy were there, after all.

"Sure," Grissom said. Then to Warrick and Sara: "Pick you up in fifteen."

Once the homicide cop and Grissom had left, Warrick turned to the assistant manager. "Okay, Patrick, truth or dare-just how stoned are you?"

The eyes widened; however, the pupils remained pinpoints. "No way!"

Sara said, "Cut the crap, Patrick. Dragnet has left the building-this is the Mod Squad you're talking to. . . . We know there's stoned, and there's stoned."

Patrick seemed to have lost the ability to form words. He stood there with his mouth hanging open.

"Why don't the three of us," Warrick said, slipping his arm around the skinny kid, "go into the back office, and just chill a little."

"Not the back room. I mean . . . uh . . . it's . . . uh . . . private."

"That's why we're going to use it," Sara said. "Because it's private-customer comes in, we won't be in the way."

The beleaguered Patrick looked to the cashier for help, but she turned her back, suddenly very interested in sorting returned videos. "Uh . . . I guess so . . ."

"Cool," Warrick said. He led the way to the back and was the first one through the door. The cubicle reeked of weed, even though the kid had lit three sticks of incense before he'd come out front. The " office" consisted of a shabby metal desk, a cheap swivel chair, some two-by-four-and-plywood shelves piled with screener tapes, and walls decorated with video promo posters, mostly for XXX-rated tapes.

"Sorry," Patrick said, coming through the door next. "It's kind of . . . uh . . . grungy back here."

"And," Sara said, just behind him, "it smells like Cheech and Chong's van."

"On a Friday night," Warrick added.

Unable not to, the kid grinned at that.

She wide-eyed the porno posters. "You actually carry this trash?"

Patrick's silly grin disappeared and professionalism kicked in: he was the assistant manager of A-to-Z Video, after all. He said "American Booty and The Boner Collector are our top two adult rental titles. You have to reserve them a couple weeks in advance."

"I'll pass," Sara said.

"So, then," Warrick said, sitting on the edge of the desk, "store does a pretty brisk business, huh?"

Patrick snorted. "Yeah, right, whatever."

Sara asked, "Is it always like this-tumbleweed blowing through the place?"

"Lot of the time," Patrick admitted. "We do pretty good on the weekends sometimes, but there's a Blockbuster on the next block, and the supermarket, at the other end of the mall? They rent tapes, too."

"Does Mr. Hyde seem concerned about business?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if it's slow, do you have meetings-pep talks, try to figure out strategy, lower your prices. . . ."

"No, not really. Barry's pretty cool for a boss. He's got a wicked sense of humor-really dark, man, I mean brutal."

I'll bet, Warrick thought.

Patrick was saying, "He doesn't give us a lot of shit . . ." He glanced at Sara. ". . . trouble about stuff."

"Does Hyde come in every day? When he's in town, I mean?"

"Yeah, yeah, he does. He doesn't stay very long, most days. He comes in, maybe orders some tapes, checks the books, goes and makes the deposit from the night before. Oh, and sometimes he brings in munchies like doughnuts and stuff."

"How many people work here?"

"Besides Mr. Hyde, four. Me, Sue-she's out front now-Sapphire and Ronnie. Me and Sue are usually paired up, Sapphire and Ronnie, same. We trade off every other week working days and nights. This week we're on days, next week we'll work nights. We don't get bored that way, and then everybody can kind of, like, have a life, you know?"

"That does sound cool," Warrick said. "We just work the night shift."

"But it's day," Patrick said, shrewdly.

Sara said, "We like to think of it as flex hours. How much do you make, working here, Patrick?"

"Eight-fifty an hour. Me and Ronnie, I mean, 'cause we're both assistant managers. Sapphire and Sue are makin' seven-fifty an hour."

"Not bad pay," Sara said, "for sitting here getting stoned."

Patrick tried to parse that-nothing judgmental had been in Sara's tone, but she was with the cops-but finally he said, "I only do that if it's real dead."

"Which is a lot of the time."

Patrick's shrug was affirmative.

Warrick, feeling Sara was getting off track, asked, "Do you remember, exactly, when Mr. Hyde has been out of town?"

"Oh, hell-all his trips are marked on the calendar."

Warrick traded glances with Sara, then asked, "What calendar is that, Patrick?"

"This one," the kid said, pointing to the July Playmate, who loomed over the desk.

"Mind if I have a look?" Warrick asked.

"No, but . . . don't you need a warrant or something?"

Warrick's reply was casual. "Not if you don't mind."

"Oh, well. Sure. Go ahead."

Flipping the pages with a pen, Warrick read off the dates and Sara copied them down. When they finished, she used the little camera from her purse to take shots of the calendar, just in case.

Patrick became a tad nervous, when Sara started shooting the photos, and Warrick put an arm around the young man. "Patrick, I'm going to make you a deal."

"A deal?"

"Yeah, if you don't tell Mr. Hyde that we were here asking questions, I won't bust your ass."

"Bust my ass . . ."

"You know-for felony possession."

"Felony? I've only got half a . . ." Patrick froze as he realized what he was saying. His eyes looked pleadingly from Warrick to Sara. "I mean . . . I thought you guys were cool. . . ."

Warrick's voice went cold. "Patrick, have we got a deal?"

Reluctantly, Patrick nodded. "Yeah."

Outside in the sunshine, Warrick said to Sara, "There's something not right here."

"More than pot smoke smells in there," Sara agreed. "The manager's never around, doesn't worry about business, and lives in an expensive new house in an upscale neighborhood."

"And he's gone from time to time-just short hops."

"Like maybe the Deuce isn't retired, you mean?"

"That does come to mind. We better go do some research about Mr. Barry Hyde."

That was when Grissom swung in, in the Tahoe; and on the way back, Warrick driving, they told their supervisor what they'd learned-and what they thought.

"I want that list of dates," Grissom said, "when Hyde was out of town."

Other than that, however, Grissom said nothing. Which always made Warrick very, very nervous.

Culpepper was waiting in Grissom's office, the FBI agent having helped himself to the chair behind the desk, his feet up on its corner. "Hey, buddy, how're you doing?"

Feeling his anger rising, Grissom breathed slowly and stayed calm. "Why, I'm just fine, Special Agent Culpepper-and how are you?"

Brass came into the office, saw the FBI agent, and said, "Our government tax dollars at work."

Culpepper's feet came off the desk and he sat up straight, but he said nothing for several endlessly long moments. At last, he said, "I hear you guys got something on the Deuce."

Grissom kept his face passive, though he wondered where Culpepper got his information. "You heard wrong."

"I've been waiting here for half an hour. Where were you, Grissom?"

"Lunch. I don't remember having an appointment with the FBI."

"I heard you were so dedicated, you don't even find time for lunch."

"Today he did," Brass said. "With me. We would have invited you, but you didn't let us know you were coming."

Grissom said, "Was there a purpose to your visit, Culpepper, or are you just fishing?"

The FBI agent's smile was almost a sneer; he straightened his tie while he stalled to come up with an answer. "I stopped by to tell you that we heard the Deuce has left the area."

Grissom allowed his skepticism to show through a little. "If you think he's gone, why are you still nosing around here?"

"Just covering all the bases, buddy. Like you, this is my turf-keeping my fellow law enforcement professionals informed. You should know that."

"Covering your what?" Brass asked.

Culpepper rose and came around the desk, stopping in the doorway. He beamed at Grissom. "Too bad you didn't come up with anything, buddy. I figured if anybody would catch this guy, it would be you. They say you're the number two crime lab in the country . . . not counting the FBI, of course."

"Yeah," Brass said, "your lab's got the reputation we're all longing for."

Culpepper made a tsk-tsk in his cheek. "Must be hard not being number one."

"We try harder," Grissom said.

The FBI agent nodded. "You'll need to. Good luck, gentlemen-keep the good thought."

And Culpepper was gone.

"Damnit," Brass said, leaning out into the hall, making sure the FBI agent wasn't lingering. "How did he know?"

"Maybe he doesn't."

"Maybe he does."

Grissom shrugged. "You talked to the county clerk, the utilities, and I don't know how many other agencies."

"He's not helping us, is he? He's watching us. Why?"

"Easier than solving the case himself maybe-steps in and takes the credit." Grissom shook his head, disgusted. "What a backward motivation for this line of work. . . . Until just now, I was tempted to give him the list of dates Warrick gave me."

"Of times Hyde's been out of town this year?"

"Yeah. See what unsolved murders or missing persons cases match up to those dates."

"Give me that list, and I'll do what I can."

Grissom did.

"You think the killer's still active?" Brass asked.

Grissom got back behind the desk, sitting. "We know he is-he shot Dingelmann. Maybe he stopped doing mob-related work and his contracts are with individuals now. That could be the reason he hasn't turned up on the FBI's radar in the last four years."

"Are you convinced Hyde is the Deuce?"

"No. Too early. Hell of a lead, though. Warrick gets the MVP of the day."

On cue, Warrick appeared in the office doorway, Sara just behind him; Grissom waved them in.

"The esteemed Agent Culpepper looks steamed," Warrick said.

"Good," said Brass.

"Saw him in the parking lot," Sara said. "What did you say to him?"

Eyes hooded, Brass said, "We just did our best to share as much with him as he shared with us."

Warrick said, "Bupkis, you mean."

"Oh, we didn't give him that much," Brass said.

Shifting gears, Warrick fell into a chair across from Grissom, saying, "Something stinks about that video store."

"Besides cannabis?" Grissom asked innocently.

Warrick and Sara smiled, avoiding their boss's eyes.

Brass picked up on the train of thought. "You're referring to that horde of customers we saw in there today."

"Even for an off time," Warrick said, "that was grim."

With a twinkle, Sara said, "And Patrick-who was very open, you know, to young people like us-admitted they don't ever do a lot of business."

"Yet the four kids that work there," Warrick said, "are pulling down decent money, and Barry Hyde doesn't seem to care about the lack of cash flow."

"Money laundry?" Brass asked.

Grissom ignored that, saying to the two CSIs, "Okay, let's take Barry Hyde to the proctologist. Sara, I want you to look into his personal life."

"If he has one, I'll find it."

"Photocopy these," Brass said, handing her his field notebook, indicating the pages, "and get that back to me. . . . This is what we do know about Hyde, from the phone calls I made around."

She scanned the notes quickly. "Not much, so far."

"It's a place to start," Grissom said. "Find out more. Warrick."

"Yeah?"

"Try coming at this through the business door."

"You got it."

Then Warrick and Sara went off on their respective missions, and Brass departed as well, leaving Grissom lost in thought, trying to figure out what the hell Culpepper was up to. For someone supposedly sharing information because both groups were looking to bring the same animal to justice, Culpepper hadn't contributed a thing to their investigation-just a vague, unsubstantiated notion that the Deuce was no longer in the area.

How long he'd been pondering this, Grissom didn't know; but he was pulled out of it by a knock on his open door. He looked up to see Sara standing there.

"You look confused," he said.

"I am confused." She came in, plopped down across from him. "This Barry Hyde thing just keeps getting weirder and weirder."

"Weird how?"

She shifted, tucked a foot under her. "Let's take his college years, for example."

"Let's."

She flashed a mischievous smile. "You can get a lot of stuff off the Internet these days, Grissom."

"So I hear. Some of it's even legal."

"Legal enough-lots of records and stuff you can go through."

"Less how, more what," he said, sitting forward. "Did you find Barry Hyde's college records?"

"Sort of," she said, wrinkling her nose. "Barry Hyde has a degree in English from the University of Idaho."

"Our Barry Hyde?"

She nodded, going faster now, in her element. "Only thing is, I went to the University of Idaho website and they have no record of him."

"You mean they wouldn't give you his records?"

"No. I mean they have no record of his ever having been a student there."

"Maybe he didn't graduate."

"You don't have to graduate to get into the records, Grissom. He didn't matriculate."

"Anything else?"

"Oh yeah. Everything for the last five years is fine. Barry Hyde's a sterling citizen. Bank loans paid on time, credit cards paid up, member of the Rotary, the Henderson Chamber of Commerce, the guy even pays his traffic tickets."

"Good for him."

"But before that? Hyde's military record says he was stationed overseas, but I found a medical file where he claimed to have never been out of the country. The whole thing's nuts. Information either doesn't check out, or is contradicted somewhere else. This guy's past got dumped into a historical Cuisinart."

"Or maybe," Grissom said, eyes tightening, "it came out of one."

14

EXITING THE BREAK ROOM WITH A CUP OF COFFEE, CATHERINE almost bumped into O'Riley, who was bounding up to her, a file folder in hand.

"Well, hello," she said.

Grinning, O'Riley said eagerly, "I've got a buddy in LAPD. Tavo Alverez."

"Good for you, Sergeant."

"Good for all of us-he tracked down Joy Petty."

"Great! Walk with me . . . I've got to catch up with Nick. . . ."

O'Riley did. "Tavo stopped by the Petty woman's place in Lakewood-she's unemployed right now, but I guess she's mostly a waitress. Unmarried, lives with a guy, a truck driver."

"Okay, she's alive and well-but is she Joy Starr?"

"Oh yeah, sure, she admitted that freely. Tavo said she seemed kinda proud of her days in 'show business,' once upon a time. Joy Starr, Monica Petty, Joy Petty-one gal."

Catherine stopped, their footsteps on the hard hall-way floor like gunshots that trailed off. Her gaze locked with O'Riley's less-than-alert sagacious stare. "Now that we've confirmed that, we need to have Joy Petty interviewed in more depth."

He shrugged his massive shoulders. "I can work this through Tavo-he's a good guy."

"Can you fly over there, or even drive?"

"I think we're better off usin' Tavo. I mean, he's willing, and he's tops."

"Then get back in touch with him," Catherine said, walking again, heading toward the lab where Nicky worked. "We need Joy Petty interviewed in detail about her relationship with Marge Kostichek."

"Okay, but Tavo phoned me from the site of a homicide, to give me that much. I mean, it is L.A.-they do have a crime of their own go down, sometimes."

"Stay on him, Sarge."

"Will do. Here." He handed her the folder. " Background check on Gerry Hoskins."

"Good!"

Another shrug. "Seems to be a right guy, got his own contracting business-you know, remodeling and stuff."

"Thanks, O'Riley. Fine job."

He smiled and headed off. Catherine caught up with Nick in the lab where he was already poring over the fingerprints.

"What do we know?" she asked as she came up next to him.

"It's looking like Gerry Hoskins is in the clear." Nick sat on a stool before a computer monitor whose screen displayed two fingerprints, one from Joy Starr's note to Fortunato, the other from Hoskins's fingerprint card. "This is not his print."

Catherine nodded and held up the file folder. "O'Riley just gave me this. Hoskins's background check."

"What's it say?"

She opened the folder, gave its contents a quick scan, saying, "Carpenter, got his own business, lived in Scott's Bluff, Nebraska till, seven years ago. Got divorced, moved here, been relatively successful, moved in with Annie Fortunato . . ." She did the math. ". . . five and a half years ago."

"Okay," Nick said, "one down."

Catherine filled him in on what O'Riley had told her about Joy Petty.

"An in-depth interview with her could really fill in some blanks," Nick said.

"We won't know until O'Riley's guy gets back, and that could be hours. For now, we stay at it."

The next print he brought up belonged to Annie Fortunato.

"The wife's prints don't match the forged note, either," Nick said.

Silently, Catherine gave thanks; she had hoped that Annie Fortunato was innocent. Grissom could preach science, science, science all he wanted: these were still human beings they were dealing with.

And the CSIs were human, too-even Grissom. Probably.

"This print, though," Nick said, bringing up a third one, "is a very definite match. Textbook."

Catherine leaned in. "The former owner of the strip club?"

"Yeah-Marge Kostichek." Nick's smile was bittersweet; he shook his head. "I'm almost sorry-the salty old girl is a real character."

"Character or not," Catherine said, studying the screen, "she wrote that note to Malachy Fortunato."

Nick's eyes narrowed. "I don't think it really was written for Malachy to read, do you?"

"No. Our friend Mr. Fortunato was probably tucked away under that trailer, by then-a fresher corpse than when we found him, but a corpse."

"But why would Marge sign Joy Starr's name to a note like that? What motive would the old girl have for killing Fortunato?"

"Having him killed," Catherine reminded him. "Working strip clubs in a mobbed-up town like Vegas used to be, Marge might well have access to somebody like the Deuce."

Nick just sat there, absorbing it all; finally he said, "I think we need a search warrant."

"Oh yeah."

Hopping off his stool, Nick asked, "We better round up O'Riley-seen him lately?"

"Just," Catherine said. "He's probably back in the bullpen by now. . . . You get your field kit organized, and I'll go tell Grissom what we're up to-and see if he can't find a judge to get us that warrant."

Ten minutes later, Catherine and Nick were moving quickly into the detectives' bullpen. Two rows of desks lined the outer walls and another ran down the center, detectives in busted and battered swivel chairs behind gray metal desks about the color of Malachy Fortunato's desiccated flesh. The skells, miscreants, and marks that made up their clientele sat in hard straightback metal chairs bolted to the floor, to prevent their use as weapons.

O'Riley was nowhere to be seen; his desk-the third one from the back on the far wall-looked like an aircraft carrier. His in-out baskets served as the tower, his phone perched on the corner like a parked fighter, and the desk top was as clean as a deserted flight deck.

Nick ran a finger over the surface and said, "I wonder if he does windows?"

Catherine called to Sanchez, the detective at the desk behind O'Riley's. "Where's he hiding?"

Without looking up from his one-finger typing, Sanchez said, "Do I look like his mother?"

"Just around the eyes and when you smile."

The detective graced her with a sarcastic smirk and resumed his hunt-and-pecking.

"Leave him a note," Nick said to her. "And we'll page him from the car."

There wasn't so much as a Post-it on that spotless desk top. She turned to Sanchez. "You got a . . ."

A small pad came flying at her and she caught it.

"Thanks." She wrote the Post-it, stuck in right on the phone, then, without looking, tossed the pad over Sanchez's way, heading out of the bullpen with Nick on her heels. When driven by a sense of urgency like this, Catherine felt frustrated by the minutiae of daily existence.

They were halfway to the suspect's house when Catherine's cell phone rang. "Willows," she said.

"It's O'Riley. I got your page, and I got your note. I'm on my way. Somebody had to pick up the search warrant, y'know."

"Ah. You're leaving the courthouse?"

"Yeah, what am I . . . maybe five minutes behind you?"

"Yep. You want us to wait for you, Sarge?"

Nick stopped for a red light. "O'Riley?"

She nodded.

"Has he got the warrant?"

She nodded again.

"Tell him he better hurry if he wants to be there when we question her."

O'Riley's voice said in her ear, "I heard that. You tell him to wait till I get there."

And O'Riley clicked off.

Matter of factly, Catherine said to Nick, "He wants us to wait for him."

"Damn."

"It's procedure, Nick. His job-not ours."

"But it's our case. . . ."

As the light turned green and Nick eased the Tahoe into the intersection, he shook his head. Ahead of them the sun was just dipping below the horizon leaving behind a trail of purple and orange that danced against fluffy cumulus.

"He wants us to wait for him," Catherine repeated, not liking it any better than Nick, but accepting it.

Nick shrugged elaborately. "I don't see why. The old girl likes me. We'll just chat with her until O'Riley shows. Loosen her up."

Catherine said nothing.

Five minutes later, Nick pulled the Tahoe up in front of Marge Kostichek's tiny paint-peeling bungalow. Darkness had all but consumed dusk, but no lights shone in the windows. For some nameless reason, Catherine felt a strange twinge in the pit of her stomach.

Nick opened the door of the SUV and unbuckled his seatbelt.

"Let's wait for O'Riley," she said reasonably. "How long can it take him to get here?"

"Why wait?"

"We should wait for O'Riley. We don't have a warrant."

But then they were going up the walk, and were at the front door, where Nick knocked. He threw her one of those dazzlers. "It'll be fine."

This is wrong, Catherine thought; she was the senior investigator on the unit-she should put her foot down. But the truth was, she was as anxious as Nick to follow this lead; and she knew that once O'Riley got here, she herself would take the investigative lead, anyway.

So why this apprehension, these butterflies?

No answer to Nick's knock, so he tried again and called, "Ms. Kostichek? It's Nick from the crime lab!"

Through the curtained window, Catherine saw a figure move in the gloomy grayness, someone with something in his or her hand-was that shape . . . a gun?

She shoved Nick off the porch to the left, her momentum carrying her with him just as a bullet exploded through the door and sailed off into the night. Another round made its small awful thunder and a second shot drilled through the door, at a lower trajectory, and spanged off the sidewalk.

Catherine and Nick lay sprawled in the dead brown bushes to the left of the front door.

"You all right?" she asked.

Shaken, startled, Nick managed, "I think so. How did you . . ."

She rolled off the shrubbery, pistol in her hand-she didn't even remember drawing it-and she said to Nick, "Head for the truck-I got your back . . . stay low." She lay on the lawn, gun trained on the front door.

Nick, shaken, was clearly afraid, but concerned for her. "I'll cover you. Never mind the Tahoe-just get the hell out of here."

"Damnit, Nick-we don't leave, we contain the scene. Get behind the truck, and call this in. Now, move!"

This time Nick didn't argue-he rolled out of the bushes, got to his knees, then blasted off like a sprinter coming out of the blocks, keeping low as he raced across the front yard.

Another shot splintered through the door and Catherine wanted to return fire, but who would she be shooting at? She couldn't blindly shoot at the house.

"Put your weapon down!" she yelled, remaining on her stomach, on the grass, handgun aimed at the doorway. "Come out with your hands high, and empty!"

Nothing.

Nick was already behind the Tahoe, his own pistol in hand. A distant siren wailed and Catherine knew help was on the way. Some neighbor had called 911.

"Come on, Cath," Nick yelled. "I've got you . . ."

But a bullet cracked the night and shattered its way through the window and smashed the driver's side window of the Tahoe.

Nick ducked and Catherine took the opportunity to roll left, come up running, and plaster herself against the side of the house. Her heart pounding, gunshots echoing in her ringing ears, she glanced out front to make sure Nick was all right. She couldn't see him.

"Nicky-you okay?" she yelled.

"Peachy!"

The siren grew. Sliding along the clapboard side of the bungalow, she made her way toward the back. Only two windows were on this side of the house, the living room picture window, and one in what might be a back bedroom. She tried to see in the edge of the shattered picture window, around the border of the curtain, but it was just too damn dark. She was moving along the side of the house when she heard a car squeal to a halt in front-O'Riley.

"What the hell!" O'Riley was saying, and Nicky's voice, softer, the words not making their way to her. Then another three shots cracked from out front-O'Riley drawing fire now.

She took a hesitant step around the corner. If she could slip in through the back door, maybe she could get the drop on the old woman-if that was who'd been firing on them. Ducking down below a window, Catherine took a second step, then the back door flew open and she froze as a tall figure-male figure-in head-to-toe black bolted out the door and sprinted across the yard. Her pistol came up automatically, but she saw no weapon in the man's hands and did not fire.

She took off after him.

The perp ran with the easy grace of an athlete, but Catherine managed to keep pace with him for half a block before he vaulted a chain link fence, stopping for a split second on the other side, then speeding across the yard, jumping the fence on the other side before disappearing into the night.

"Damnit," she said, stopped at the first fence. She holstered the weapon, and walked back to the house, still trying to catch her breath.

When she got back out front, she found O'Riley pacing in the yard, talking to two uniformed officers, whose black-and-white at the curb, with its longbar, painted the night blue and red.

"Where's Nick?" she asked him.

O'Riley pointed. "Inside. . . . The woman's dead."

"What?"

He shook his head. "It's ugly in there, Catherine-double-tapped, just like Fortunato and Dingelmann."

She filled him in quickly, about the perp's escape, and he turned to the uniformed men, to start the search, and she went inside to help Nick process the scene.

Marge Kostichek lay facedown on the shabby living room rug, a large purple welt on her left cheek, her eyes mercifully closed. A gag made from a scarf encircled her head, blocking her mouth. A large crimson stain stood out where her mouth was. So much blood was on the floor, it was hard to find a place to stand without compromising the evidence.

"It's him," Nick said, his complexion a sickly white. "He got to Kostichek before we could. He even cut off her fingertips, like Fortunato. Two of them anyway-we must have interrupted him." He swallowed thickly. "Judging from the gag, I think she bit through her tongue."

They heard another vehicle squeal to a halt outside. Within seconds, Grissom-his black attire not unlike the perp's-stood in the doorway.

"What were you doing here without O'Riley?" he demanded.

"O'Riley was on his way with the search warrant," Catherine said, covering. "We had no way of knowing the Deuce would be here."

"Tell me," Grissom said, and Catherine filled him in, in detail.

Then Grissom took a deep breath. "All right," he said. "Let's do the scene and see if maybe we can find a way to get this guy."

Catherine pointed to the floor. "If he's still using the same gun, these shell casings will be a great start."

Expressing his agreement with a nod, he jerked his cell phone out and punched speed-dial. ". . . Jim, get over to Hyde's house, now. Someone just killed Marge Kostichek. . . . I know-maybe he's on his way home right now. . . . Not yet, we're doing that now." He hit END, then turned to Catherine and Nick. "Find us what we need."

Catherine was already bagging shell casings.

Grissom, clearly pissed, said, "I don't like murders on my watch."

At the front doorway, O'Riley-keeping out of the way of the crime scene investigation-called Catherine over. Grissom came along.

O'Riley said to them, "I got a little good news-my man Tavo in L.A. just interviewed Joy Petty."

Catherine and Grissom exchanged glances, the latter prompting, "And?"

"Seems the Kostichek woman took Joy in as a runaway, raised her like a daughter. Joy says her 'mom' considered Malachy Fortunato a 'bad influence'-you know, a married man, a degenerate gambler, with the mob nipping at his heels. After Malachy disappeared, Joy says she was afraid the mob had killed him, so she took off, to protect herself."

Grissom asked, "Where is Joy now?"

"Still there at the stationhouse with Tavo-my LAPD contact."

"Have him take another run at her-but this time tell her about Marge's murder."

Catherine glanced at Grissom quizzically.

"Yeah?" O'Riley said. "Why?"

But now Catherine had caught up with her boss, saying, "Because Joy might stop protecting her mom, if she knows her mom is dead . . . particularly if she knows how her mom died."

O'Riley looked from one of them to the other. "No details spared?"

"None," Grissom said. "The LAPD uses digital tape for their interviews, right?"

"I think so. I mean, we do."

"Good. Tell your man Tavo I'm gonna want this interview sent up to our server, toot sweet, so we can download it."

O'Riley nodded and ambled out.

Grissom pitched in with them, as they looked for footprints first. Nick used the electrostatic dust print lifter and pulled up a running-shoe print from the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Next they photographed the body, the living room, the kitchen and an open drawer that Catherine found in a back bedroom.

With Grissom's help, they fingerprinted everything the killer might have touched. While Nick did the flat surfaces, Catherine used Mikrosil to print the doorknobs, but she had seen the killer wearing gloves when she chased him. She didn't expect to get much and they didn't. She bagged all of Marge's shoes so they could later prove that none of them matched the print they got from the kitchen. Catherine found nothing in her search of the backyard or the alley. Then, shining her mini-flash on the top of the chain link fence, she saw something glimmer.

Moving closer, she found a few strands of black fiber and a small patch of blood. She snapped some photos and then, using a pair of wire cutters, snipped two of the ends off the top of the fence and deposited them in evidence bags.

She shared this with Grissom, who had spent much of his time in the house supervising their work, but also snooping around on his own.

"Come with me," Grissom said, and in the kitchen he pointed out a knife almost out of its holder on the counter, and, on the floor, a few drops of blood and some strands of gray hair.

Then Catherine followed Grissom into the living room, where he pointed out a suspiciously clear area on the cluttered writing desk-had something been taken?

Now Grissom was staring, apparently at the wall.

"You think you know how this went down," Catherine said, knowing that look.

"Yes," he said.

The Deuce knew they would never let up now. All he could do was cover his tracks as much as possible. He'd seen the article in the Las Vegas Sun and knew they had stumbled onto Fortunato's mummified body. If the cops had that, how long until they found the woman?

The old woman didn't think he knew about the younger one, but he did. It was his business to know. The stripper had been sleeping with the mark, so damn right he knew about her. According to the phone book, the old woman, Kostichek, still lived where she always had. That made it easier. He had no idea where the stripper was, but he would find out. That was part of the reason for his visit to the old woman.

He parked a couple of blocks away in the parking lot of a grocery store, no point in getting careless now. Taking his time, he walked a block and a half before cutting up the alley behind her house. Even though the sun had started to set, it still beat down on him, his black clothes absorbing the heat like a sponge, and he felt the sweat beginning to pool at the small of his back, behind his knees, and under his arms. A lighter color would have been cooler, but he knew he'd be here past dark and he might want to leave without being seen, so he wore the black.

He came up behind the house, pulling on black leather gloves as he edged closer. Looking around carefully, he tried to make sure no one saw him as he took the silencer from his pocket and screwed it on the handgun. Then he knocked lightly on her back door, stepping to one side so she would have to open both the inside door and the screen to see him. Reaching around, he knocked again, louder this time.

"Jesus jones, I'm coming!" she yelled.

The woman opened the door, said, "Who's there?" and then opened the screen and saw him.

She tried to pull the door shut, but he was much stronger, and jammed himself into the frame. Ducking back inside, she tried to close the inner door in his face, but again he overpowered her. She fell back against the stove, turned and reached for a knife from the block on the counter. He pressed the silenced snout of the automatic to her cheek and she froze.

Raising the noise-suppressed weapon, he cracked her across the face and she collapsed to the floor. Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her, struggling, into the living room.

"Where is she?" he asked, crouching over her.

The old woman seemed confused. "Who?"

"The stripper-where is she?"

"Go to hell!"

Casually, he pulled a pair of garden clippers from his pocket. "I'm going to find out anyway. You can make this easy, or hard."

Her eyes filled with tears, but her jaw set and she said nothing.

"Hard it is," he said. Putting down the clippers, he picked up one of her scarves off the back of a chair. He gagged her with it, then picked up the clippers and closed them around the pinky of her left hand.

Tears running down her cheeks now, her sobs fighting to get out through the gag, she closed her eyes.

"This little piggy . . ." He tightened the clippers' grip on her finger, blood leaked out around the edges. "Are you sure it has to be this way?"

She said nothing, sobs still wracking her body.

". . . goes to market." The clippers closed with the angry crack of her fingertip snapping off.

Her scream was louder than he would have expected with the gag and she tried to crawl away, but he cuffed her alongside the head, grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her back. She wailed now, her right hand coming up to cup the left one as she watched blood stream down her hand.

Only risk was, he knew, she might pass out from pain and shock . . . but she was a tough old bird.

Batting away her good hand, he closed the clippers on her ring finger. "This little piggy stayed home . . . ready to tell me? Just nod."

She shook her head, defiant, but this time she screamed into the gag before he did it. That didn't stop him. He heard the same crack and watched the fingertip fall to the floor.

"Ready now?"

The old woman curled into a ball and tried to protect her hand, but he jerked her hand up, closed the clippers around the middle finger. Her eyes went wide and wild, and, using her good hand, she pointed toward the desk.

"What?" he asked.

She couldn't speak; the gag was bloody. She'd bit through her tongue, so taking the gag off would not aid clarity.

"You're telling me the information is in the desk?"