Double Dealer

"It means I'm going to track O'Riley down, and run out there." She waved the printout. "I want to meet the little woman whose husband ran off with his girlfriend . . . and have a look at what may be a really not-fresh crime scene."

Nick bobbed his head. "I'll get on the DNA."

"Good." Glancing through the file one more time, she noticed a note that said the police had returned Mr. Fortunato's personal effects to his wife. "What the hell?"

She handed the note to Nick, who read it and shrugged. "So?"

Catherine's half-smile was wry and skeptical. "If Malachy the mummy was missing, what personal stuff did they have of his?"

"There's no inventory?"

She shuffled through the papers one more time. "Nope."

Nick shrugged. "Could be anything."

"Could be something." She rose, went to the door and turned back to him. "Nice work, Nick. Really nice."

He gave her another dazzler, pleased with himself. "I'm not as dumb as I look."

"No one could be," she said with affection, and he laughed as she waved and went out.

O'Riley met Catherine in front of the Fortunato house and she filled him in. She liked working with the massive, crew-cut detective because the man knew his limitations, and wasn't offended when she broke protocol and took the lead in questioning. She did wonder where he'd come up with that brown-and-green-plaid sportshirt; maybe the same garage sale as the who-shot-the-couch sportcoat.

The one-story stucco ranch had an orange tile roof and a front yard where the sparse grass was like the scalp of a guy whose transplant wasn't taking. Heat shimmered up off the sidewalk, and from the asphalt drive that had, in the intervening years, replaced the gravel driveway of the file photos. The carport, at least, remained.

The detective knocked on the door and almost immediately it opened to reveal a thin, haggard, but not unattractive woman in her fifties, with a cigarette dangling between her lips.

"Mrs. Fortunato?" O'Riley asked, flashing his badge. He identified himself and Catherine.

"I used to be Mrs. Fortunato. But that's kind of old news-why?"

Catherine said, "You're still listed under that name in the phone book, Mrs.-"

"I'm still Annie Fortunato, I just don't use the 'Mrs.' It's a long boring story." She looked from face to face. "What's this about, anyway?"

Catherine held the evidence bag containing the ring out in front of her-the distinctive gold-and-diamond ring winked in the sunlight, the "F" staring at the woman, the woman staring back.

Taking the bag, a slight tremor in her hands, Mrs. Fortunato studied the gaudy ring. A tear trailed down her cheek and she wiped it absently. Another replaced it and another, and soon the woman shook violently and slipped down, puddling at O'Riley's feet even as he tried to catch her.

A burly man in a white T-shirt and black jeans bounded into the living room from the kitchen. "Hey, what the hell?" he yelled, moving forward toward the stricken woman.

O'Riley, surprised to see the guy, pulled his badge and tried to show it to the man who barreled toward them, his fist drawn back ready to punch O'Riley in the face. The badge slipped from O'Riley's grasp and his hand came back toward his hip.

In horror, Catherine realized the big cop, spooked and unnerved, was going for his gun. She grabbed O'Riley's gun hand, keeping him from drawing his pistol and, in the same fluid motion, stepped in front of the detective, ready to take the blow from the large man freight-training toward them.

Facing the oncoming potential attacker, she almost yelled, "It's all right, sir! We're with the police."

The punch looped toward her and Catherine flinched, but the blow never landed. Her words registered just in time, and the brute halted the punch just short of her face.

She gasped; but she would have done it again, because if she hadn't, O'Riley might well have been up before the shooting board for firing on an unarmed citizen. A lousy career move. And dead or wounded citizens were not helpful to an investigation.

"Police?" the big guy was asking, dumbfounded.

Behind her, on the stoop, O'Riley stumbled backward, regained his balance, and stood there staring at Catherine as the big guy helped Annie Fortunato to her feet. The apparent man of the house led the shaken woman inside, helping her to take a seat on the sofa. Finally, O'Riley followed.

"Who are you, sir?" Catherine asked, as she quickly took in the living room, an ode to the brass-and-glass movement of the eighties. After picking his badge up, O'Riley relegated himself to the background. The big detective was trembling, and embarrassed, and Catherine was only too happy to carry the ball.

Catherine repeated: "Sir, who are you, please?"

The T-shirted brute's attention was on the weeping woman, but he said, "Gerry Hoskins. I'm Annie's . . . uh . . . friend." Middle-aged, the powerfully built six-foot Hoskins wore his brown hair almost as short as O'Riley's; his oval face had a bulldog look, offset by deep blue eyes which Catherine supposed would look attractive when they weren't blazing with anger . . . as they were now.

"What did you do to her?" he demanded.

Fighting to regain control, Annie Fortunato handed Hoskins the evidence bag.

"They . . . they found Mal," the woman managed between sobs.

He looked at the initial on the ring. Then he stared at his agonized lady friend, and, finally, Hoskins seemed to get it. "Oh, God. You finally found him? You wouldn't be here, he wasn't dead, right?"

Catherine ignored this; and O'Riley was just another outmoded hunk of furniture. Crouching on her haunches so she could look the woman in the eye, Catherine said, "We think your husband is dead, Mrs. Fortunato . . . but we need to make sure. I know it's been many years . . . do you remember, did Malachy have a dentist he visited regularly?"

Not missing a beat, the woman said, "Dr. Roy McNeal."

"You're sure? It has been a long time-"

"He's still my dentist. And Mal was so busy, at work, I always made his appointments for him."

"Good. Good."

Clutching her boyfriend's hand, Mrs. Fortunato kept her eyes on Catherine. "You really think you've found Mal? I mean, after all these years?"

"A body discovered yesterday was wearing this ring-on the third finger of his right hand."

Annie Fortunato drew in a breath; then she nodded. "Yes, that's where he wore it. Where did you find him?"

"A vacant lot toward the end of the Strip."

Eyes tight, Mrs. Fortunato said, "I know that lot-the one with all the garbage?"

"Yes. A resort's going in. Romanov's."

"I read about that in the paper," Hoskins said, as he plucked a tissue from a box on an end table. He handed Mrs. Fortunato the tissue, and she managed a weak smile of thanks, dabbing at her eyes.

"A crew has started to clear the lot," Catherine said. "They found the man we believe to be your husband under an old abandoned trailer."

The woman seemed to have another question that she couldn't quite get out. Catherine leaned in, touched Mrs. Fortunato's arm. "Yes? What is it, Mrs. Fortunato?"

Shakily taking a cigarette from a pack on the glass end table next to her, the woman lit it, took a deep drag, let it out in a blue cloud, and finally turned her attention back to Catherine. "Was she with him?"

"She?"

"His whore," she snarled. "Was she with him?"

Woah . . .

Catherine said, "He was alone. We searched the lot thoroughly-no other body was present."

Patting Mrs. Fortunato's knee, Hoskins-his manner very different now-said to Catherine, "There was this dancer that some people thought Mal was sleeping with. You know-a stripper."

"I know about strippers," Catherine said.

"Slut disappeared the same night Annie's husband did. Annie had some trouble with some . . . uh . . . people Mal owed money, bad debts, you know. They told Annie that Mal had probably just run off with this woman, and they wanted her to give them the money Mal owed."

Something like a growl escaped Mrs. Fortunato's throat. "Like I had a goddamn penny to my name, back then. It wasn't until we got Mal declared legally dead after seven years that I got any peace from anybody."

"These people," Catherine said, "were they organized crime?"

"Yeah," Hoskins said. He shook his head. "It was different, back then. Mal worked for one of the old-school casinos, Chicago or Cleveland guys owned it . . . they claimed he was skimming. Anyway, some characters who make me look like a fashion model come around a few times, right after Mal . . ."

Struck by how vivid this recapitulation was, Catherine interrupted. "Excuse me, Mr. Hoskins, were you here, then?"

He shook his head. "No-but I heard Annie talk about it so much, it's like-"

"Then I need to hear this from Mrs. Fortunato, okay?"

The big guy looked sheepish. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

Mrs. Fortunato picked up right where he had left off. "They came around right after Mal . . . disappeared. They made a lot of noise, made me show them my damn bank book. Tax statements, too, they made me show 'em. Wanted to know what safe deposit boxes I had, God. Finally they saw I didn't have the money, and left me alone."

Catherine nodded. "They wanted to make sure you weren't in with your husband on the embezzlement."

Defensively, the woman said, "It was never proven that Mal stole their money."

"Mrs. Fortunato, your husband's death is a murder, and it looks like a mob assassination." Catherine let it go at that; she preferred not to share any details with the woman, not this early in the investigation, anyway.

Mrs. Fortunato took this in blankly, eyes not teary anymore-red, glazed, but not teary.

Catherine said, "If you're up to it, I'd like to ask you a few more questions."

"I suppose we should get this over with," Mrs. Fortunato said, and sighed. "What do you think, Gerry?"

"Yeah. I'll make us some coffee, okay?"

A tired smile crossed the woman's face. "Thanks."

Awkwardly, Hoskins looked from Catherine to the totem pole that was O'Riley. "Would you people like anything? Coffee? I got diet root beer."

Catherine said, "No thank you," and O'Riley shook his bucket head.

Hoskins swallowed, stood, and went over to O'Riley in his corner. He extended his hand. "Sorry, man. I shouldn'ta swung on you. It's just that it looked like . . ."

"Forget about it," O'Riley said, taking the guy's hand.

"Am I gonna get charged with anything? Swinging on a cop like that?"

O'Riley waved it off. "Simple misunderstanding."

"Sure you don't want any coffee?"

"I could use some," O'Riley admitted.

Wanting to keep Hoskins busy, Catherine said, "Me, too. Thanks."

Hoskins went into the kitchen and O'Riley melted back into the corner.

"Gerry's been good to me," Mrs. Fortunato said, her eyes following Hoskins into the kitchen. "These last years, he helped me survive."

Catherine pressed forward. "Mrs. Fortunato, tell me about the day Malachy disappeared."

Again, not missing a beat, the woman knew: "January twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-five."

"Yes. What do you remember?"

"Everything," Mrs. Fortunato said, stubbing out one cigarette in the ashtray on the end table and immediately lighting up another. "Mal had been nervous-trouble at work, I figured. He never really told me much about things like that. He always got up early, around five-thirty, and by six-thirty, he was on his way to work. He was dedicated to his job, despite what those people said. Anyway, on that morning, I didn't hear him get up."

"Go on."

"I worked late nights, in those days. I was a cashier over on Fremont Street. Mal worked at the Sandmound, in the office, accounting."

"Excuse me-wasn't your husband a gambler?"

"Oh yes."

"I thought the casinos didn't hire gamblers for jobs of that nature."

"No one knew he was gambling . . . except me. He was doing it from phone booths. Calling bookies out east. By the time anyone found out what was going on, him and that dancer had disappeared." She drew on the cigarette; her eyes glittered. "I hope the bastards killed her too. She was the one turned him from a guy who liked a friendly bet into a gambler."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, it's obvious. If he hadn't tried to keep us both happy, he wouldn't have stolen that money. He wouldn't have been betting on games trying to make enough money to support two women."

Catherine frowned. "So, he really was embezzling? Whether it was proven or not?"

Another shrug-a fatalistic one. "Why would they lie to me about it? What could they get out of me? They weren't so bad, anyway, for a bunch of goddamn mobsters. I worked in casinos for years, myself."

Catherine hit from another side. "Could it have been the bookies he bet with out east that put out a contract on him? Not his bosses at the casino?"

"Your guess is as good as mine." Mrs. Fortunato snuffed out her latest cigarette. "You know, in my head, I always hoped he ran off. Then at least, he'd be alive. But in my heart? I knew he was dead."

Steering her back, Catherine asked, "About that day?"

The woman stared into the past. "I got up about ten that morning. Got the paper off the stoop. It didn't always come before Mal left for work. If it did, he brought it in. But that morning it was on the stoop. I picked it up, looked toward the carport, and Mal's car was gone, just like it ought to be. So, I went about my business. I read the paper, had some breakfast, called my mom-she was still alive back then-you know, stuff and things."

Catherine nodded.

"About four-thirty, I decided to go to the grocery store, get something nice for dinner. I hadn't talked to Mal all day, but I expected him home around six or so. It was my day off and he usually came right home on my day off, so we could spend the evening together." A wistful smile flickered; her eyes grew moist again.

Catherine knew what it was like, loving a louse. "You must have loved him a great deal."

Tears overflowing again, she nodded.

Catherine moved up onto the couch and let the woman cry on her shoulder.

After several long moments, Mrs. Fortunato shuddered, then pulled away, mumbling her thanks. Then she spoke quickly: "I decided to go to the grocery, and went out the back door. We used the back door almost exclusively. I went out and saw this dark red blotch on the gravel of the carport. This was before we paved the driveway. Goddamn asphalt. It's for shit in this heat. But the contractor said it was cheap and I didn't know any better."

Catherine tried not to rush the woman, but she could see O'Riley getting antsy in the corner.

Hoskins returned, carrying a tray with four cups and sugar and cream.

The woman said to him, "I was just telling them about the asphalt."

"Contractor was a goddamn crook," he said and went back into the kitchen for the coffee.

"You saw the dark red blotch," Catherine prompted.

"Yeah, yeah, and I just knew. I looked at it close and I just knew it was drying blood. I came right back in the house and called the police."

Hoskins brought in the coffee. They each took a cup and he poured. Mrs. Fortunato used lots of sugar and some cream, Hoskins only the cream, while O'Riley and Catherine drank theirs black. Much better than the break-room swill.

Catherine thanked Hoskins, as did O'Riley-she noticed a tiny tremor in the cop's big hand. She turned back to Mrs. Fortunato. "So, you called the police."

"Yes. They came, took a sample of the blood, and were never able to tell me anything. They never even found Mal's car."

"The report said that the police returned your husband's personal effects."

The woman nodded.

"There was no inventory in the report-I was curious what they had of his."

"Gerry, could you get the box? You know where it is."

Hoskins left the room again.

"When the cops brought back the box," the woman said, "I barely opened it. Mostly it was junk from Mal's desk at work." An edge was creeping into her voice. "One of the things they found, though, was a letter to him from his whore. That's what made them think he ran away with her."

Hoskins came back in carrying a plain brown cardboard box and handed it to Catherine.

"May I take this with me?" she asked.

The woman scowled. "Be my guest. And do me a favor-this time, don't bring it back. There's nothing in that box I ever want to see again. That was the property of a different man-not my Mal."

Accepting the box, Catherine asked, "By the way, did Malachy smoke?"

"No, not ever. He thought it was a filthy habit." She glanced at the cigarette in her hand. "Ironic, huh? I'd quit smoking 'cause of him . . . then when he disappeared, started in again. Nerves."

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Fortunato, but I have to ask you one more question."

"Yes?"

"Can you tell me the name of the dancer your husband was involved with?"

Mrs. Fortunato's jaw set, her lips whitened. She stabbed out the cigarette, repeatedly jabbing it into the ashtray, sending up a small shower of sparks.

Hoskins said, "Joy Starr."

"Why do you need her name?" Mrs. Fortunato asked.

"We'd like to talk to her," Catherine said. "But first we'll have to find out what became of her."

Hoskins offered, "Annie never knew if that was her real name, or just a stage name. . . . But she worked at a place called Swingers. It's still there-way down south on Paradise Road."

Catherine knew the place. "Okay, Mr. Hoskins-thanks." She turned to the woman. "Thank you, Mrs. Fortunato, for your time and patience. I know this has been difficult. We'll be looking into your husband's murder, now, so we may have more questions later."

Catherine held out her hand and the woman grasped it, warmth in her grip. The stoniness in Mrs. Fortunato's face seemed to melt away.

"Somehow," the woman said, "I feel . . . better. Thank you."

When the cop and the criminalist got outside into the July heat, O'Riley stopped Catherine, near her car.

"Thanks for doin' my job in there. And, uh . . . well, just thanks."

She gave him a look.

The crew-cut head shook, and he blew out wind. "I was ready to draw down on the S.O.B."

"Forget it, Sarge. Could have happened to anyone."

Catherine noticed a slight shudder in O'Riley's hands as the detective got into his car. After placing the box of Malachy Fortunato's effects in the backseat, she climbed into the Tahoe and phoned Nick.

"Nicky, Malachy's our mummy. Get the address of a dentist named Roy McNeal and get back to me. I want to pick up Fortunato's dental records before I come back to the office."

"Cool," Nick said. "Get right back to you."

She sat in the SUV and studied the house as she waited for Nick's call. So Malachy didn't smoke, and at the time of his disappearance, his wife wasn't a smoker, either. A cigarette butt in the backyard could mean somebody waited for Malachy Fortunato to leave the house, that morning fifteen years ago. . . .

He lit the cigarette, clicked the Zippo closed, and leaned against the house as he took a long drag. Dew still clung to the new sod. Grass probably wouldn't last long here, but they always seemed to make the effort when they put up one of these new homes. The house he stood behind had been built within the last six months and only inhabited for the last two. The mark inside, some guy named Fortunato, had pissed off the wrong people.

Houses on either side held families that still slept peacefully. Behind the house, where he now stood puffing away on his Marlboro, the backyard butted up against one from the next block. Those homes, however, had not been completed, and the construction crews hadn't yet arrived to begin the day's work. So he had the neighborhood to himself. . . .

Fortunato's schedule seemed etched in stone. For the week the hitter had been watching him, the mark had left the house within a two-minute window, every morning. The hitter loved a clockwork guy. Same time, same path, everyday, an invitation for someone to cap a poor, sad son of a bitch.

He took another drag, let the smoke settle in his lungs, then slowly blew it out through his nose. Glancing at his watch, he smiled. Plenty of time to enjoy this cigarette, no reason to rush. Finish the smoke, put on his gloves, then go to work.

Taking one last drag, the hitter held it in for a long time before blowing the smoke out and stubbing the butt into the yard with his foot. He pulled the gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Rotating his head, he felt the bones in his neck crack as he loosened up; then he checked his watch one last time.

Time to punch the clock.

He withdrew his automatic from its holster, checked the clip, then screwed on the silencer. He shifted slightly so he could see around the corner. No target yet. Ducking back, he slowed his breathing, waited. . . .

The mark walked out of the door, closed it, then the screen, and turned to his car. The hitter came up behind Fortunato, squeezed the trigger and felt the small pistol buck in his hand. A tiny flower of red blossomed from the back of the mark's head. Didn't even have time to yell, simply folded in on himself and dropped.

Going down with him, the killer put another shot one inch above the first-an insurance policy and a signature. Then the killer pulled the car keys from the dead man's hand, peered over the fender of the car to make sure no one had seen the action. Satisfied the neighbors still slept, he jumped up, opened the trunk, picked up the body and dumped it in, slammed the lid, then got in the front, behind the wheel, and turned the key.

The engine turned over, rumbling to life and, not rushing, the hitter backed the car out of the driveway and eased down the street, just another middle-class joe on his way to work.

There was no one around when he arrived at the vacant lot off Russell Road. None of the passing motorists paid any attention to a guy driving into the lot to dump his trash, like so many others had before him. It took only a moment to find what he sought. To his left, shielded from the road, was the abandoned house trailer he'd spotted earlier. The hulk had already begun to rust, and he figured no one would be nosing around it for some time. Several sheets of its aluminum skin had slipped off. Some hung precariously from the side, others lay scattered like molted scales.

He pulled the body from the trunk, careful to avoid the bleeding skull, and dragged the meat by its feet to the trailer. He shoved the body onto a sheet of aluminum, then pushed the sled of metal underneath the trailer. As a parting gift, he unscrewed the silencer, which he dropped in a pocket; then removed the barrel from the automatic and tossed it under the trailer with the corpse. With more strips of trailer skin, some wood and rubble, he blocked the opening. Then, using his foot, he covered over the blood trail with dirt, wiping out most of the footprints (among so many footprints already), and casually drove off. He would ditch the car elsewhere.

The cell phone rang and shook Catherine from her reverie-cum-reconstruction.

"Write down this address," Nick said, and he gave it to her, and she did. "Dr. McNeal's nurse'll have Malachy Fortunato's file waiting for you."

Within an hour an energized Catherine Willows was driving back to headquarters with the dental records in hand, certain she was about to establish the identity of their mummy.

Finding him had only been yesterday; today, with the victim identified, the search would shift to his killer.

7

AS IF HYPNOTIZED BY A FASCINATING WORK OF CINEMATIC art, Grissom watched the gray grainy picture crawling across the monitor; this was yet another Beachcomber video, one of scores he'd examined over the past twenty-four hours. Right now he was taking a second pass through the stack of tapes that represented the morning of the shooting. Occasionally he would remove his glasses and rub his eyes, and now and then he would stand and do stretching exercises, to relieve the low back pain all this sitting was engendering.

But mostly he sat and watched the grainy, often indistinct images. A normal person might have gone mad by now, viewing this cavalcade of monotony; but Grissom remained alert, interested. Each tape was, after all, a fresh piece of evidence, or at least potential evidence. Right now, in an angle on the casino, the time code read 5:40 A.M.

The ceiling-mounted camera's view-about halfway back one of the casino's main aisles, looking toward the front-included a blurry picture of the path from the lobby to the elevators. At this time of morning, casino play was relatively sparse. Notably apparent in frame were a man sitting at a video poker machine, on the end of a row near the front, and a woman standing at a slot two rows closer to the camera, this one facing it. For endless minutes, nothing happened-the handful of gamblers gambling, the occasional waitress wandering through with a drink tray; then Grissom noticed a figure in the distance-between the lobby and the elevator.

Sitting a little straighter, forcing his eyes to focus, Grissom felt reasonably certain the blurry figure in the background was their victim from upstairs. He hunched closer to the screen, eyes narrowed, watching-yes!-John Smith as he took a few steps, and then glanced casually in the direction of the man at the video poker machine. Almost as if Grissom had hit PAUSE, John Smith froze.

Smith was too far in the background for the security camera to accurately record his expression; but Grissom had no trouble making out Smith as he abruptly took off toward the elevator. Nor did Grissom have any trouble seeing the poker player start after him, get stopped by something attaching him to the machine, which he pulled out, and then followed Smith to the elevator.

As the man on the monitor screen moved away from the poker machine, Grissom was able to note the same clothes he'd seen on the fleeing killer on the videotape from upstairs, right down to the black running shoes.

Damn-how had he missed this first time around? Grissom shook his head-it had all happened quickly, in the time it might have taken him to rub his eyes from fatigue.

Grissom stopped the tape, replayed it, replayed it again. As with the hallway tape, the killer never looked at the camera. Had he knowingly positioned himself with his back to the security camera? Was he a hitman stalking his prey?

He watched the tape several more times, concentrating now on the hesitation in the killer's pursuit. Finally he noticed the flashing light on top of the machine. The killer had hit a winner just as he took off after the victim! Was that what had stopped him?

No. Something else.

Grissom halted the tape. He knew who could read this properly. He knew just the man. . . .

He stood in the doorway and called down the corridor: "Warrick!"

When this got no immediate response, Grissom moved down the hallway, a man with a mission, going room to room. He stuck his head inside the DNA lab, prompting the young lab tech to jump halfway out of his skin.

"I didn't do it, Grissom," Greg Sanders said. "It's not my fault!"

This stopped Grissom just long enough for him to twitch a tiny smile. "I'm sure you didn't do it, Greg-whatever it is. Have you seen Warrick?"

"Last I saw him, he and Sara were working on AFIS . . . but maybe that was yesterday. . . ."

At that, Grissom frowned. "Precision, Greg. Precision."

Back in the hallway, he moved on in his search, and almost bumped into the lanky Warrick, stepping around the corner, typically loose-limbed in a brown untucked short-sleeved shirt and lighter chinos.

"You rang, Gris?"

Grissom was on the move again. "Come with me-I want to show you something."

Back in his office, Grissom played Warrick the tape-twice.

"Well?" Grissom asked.

There was never any rushing Warrick; his eyes were half-hooded as he played the tape for himself one more time.

Then Warrick said, "Looks to me like he's pulling a casino card from the machine."

Grissom smiled. "And we know what that does for us."

"Oh yeah. Casino can track the card. They can give us the name on the card." Warrick frowned in thought. "You don't suppose the killer's local?"

"I don't suppose anything," Grissom said. "But that possibility hasn't been ruled out. . . . What are you working on?"

Warrick jerked a thumb toward the door. "Sara and me, we were working on tracing the sender of a piece of e-mail on Dingelmann's Palm Pilot."

Grissom frowned. "Dingelmann?"

Warrick gave him a look. "That's the victim's name-Philip Dingelmann."

"Were you waiting for Christmas to give it to me?"

"Didn't you see Brass's report-it's on your desk."

Grissom nodded toward the monitor. "I've been in here a while."

"You were in here yesterday when shift ended. This is a new shift, Gris. You oughta get some sleep, maybe even consider eating a meal now and-"

"Dingelmann! Chicago. The mob lawyer?"

Warrick, now wearing his trademark humorless smirk, just nodded.

Grissom put a hand on Warrick's shoulder. "Okay, let Sara work the e-mail; she's the computer whiz-you're my resident gambling expert."

"Is that a compliment?"

"I don't care what it is-I want you back at that casino, now. Check that machine for prints, and find out whatever you can from the slot host."

"Should I page Brass, and call in a detective?"

"When the time comes."

Already moving, Warrick said, "I'm on it," as Grissom assured him, "I'll tell Sara what's up."

Grissom walked back down the hall to the office where Sara worked at a keyboard. "Any luck?" he asked.

"Sure-all lousy," she said. "This guy covered his tracks pretty well. This e-mail must have been laundered through every freakin' ISP in the world."

"Okay, relax." Grissom sat on the edge of the desk, smiled at her; he'd hand-picked the Harvard grad for his unit-she'd been a seminar student of his, and he valued her tech skills, dedication and tenacity. "There are other things to be done, right?"

"Always. Where's Warrick?"

"I sent him back to the Beachcomber."

Her brow tightened. "Without me?"

"Yes."

"Think that's a good idea? Sending him to a casino all by his lonesome?"

Grissom shrugged a little. "I trust him."

A sigh, a smirk. "You're the boss."

"Nice of you to notice," Grissom said. "Anyway, I need you."

She looked at him, eyebrows up, not quite sure how to take that.

"We have a date in the morgue."

They both wore blue scrubs and latex gloves, and stood between the two autopsy tables. In front of them lay Philip Dinglemann, behind them Catherine and Nick's mummy.

"So, what are we doing here?" Sara asked.

"Read this," he said, handing her the autopsy report for John Doe #17.

She scanned it quickly, stopped, read part of it more slowly. "What's this, a screw-up? Robbins got the bodies backward?"

Grissom shook his head. "The pattern's the same, to within an eighth of an inch."

"That can't be right. . . ."

"The evidence says it's right, it's right. But you and I are going to measure them again just to be sure."

"It's a heck of a coincidence."

"Is it?"

"Grissom, why didn't you tell Warrick and me about this?"

"Keeping the cases separate. No assumptions that we have one case, here, until or unless the evidence tells us so."

Nodding, she said, "Which one first?"

"Age before beauty," Grissom said, turning to the mummy.

Warrick parked in the vast lot behind the Beachcomber, entering through the casino, a smaller version of his field kit in hand, including fingerprinting gear. He knew (as Grissom surely did) that this was probably a pointless exercise, all this time after the killer had left the machine behind; but you never knew.

Grissom had sent him here alone, even making the questionable call of not inviting a detective along for any questioning that might come up. Either Grissom finally trusted him completely, Warrick figured, or this was a test. The whirrings of slots, the calling out of dealers, the dinging, the ringing, made for a seductive madhouse through which he walked, somehow staying focused on the job at hand.

Soon he found himself standing under the camera that had captured the videotape images Grissom had shared with him. He ignored the bells and whistles, the smoke-filled air, the expressions on faces-defeat, joy, frustration, boredom-and just did his job. He strode to the video poker machine where, less than twenty-four hours ago, the killer had sat.

The patron sitting there now, bald, bespectacled, in his mid-thirties, wore a navy Polo shirt, tan Dockers, and sandals with socks. Warrick watched as the man kept a pair of tens, drew a wild deuce and two nothing cards. Three of a kind broke even, returning a quarter for the quarter bet. Big spender, Warrick thought, as the man kept a four, six, seven and eight, a mix of clubs and diamonds.

Sucker bet, Warrick thought; trying to fill an inside straight, what a joke. The guy drew an eight of spades-another loser. Mr. Sandals-with-socks quickly lost four more hands before he turned to Warrick, standing peering over his shoulder.

Irritation edged the guy's voice. "Something?"

Warrick flashed his badge. "I'm with the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. Need to dust this machine for fingerprints."

The gambler flared with indignation. "I been sitting here since Jesus was a baby! I'm not giving up this machine."

Nodding, Warrick bent down closer. "A killer sat at this very machine yesterday morning."

The man didn't move; but he also didn't return his attention to the poker machine.

Warrick gestured with his head. "You see that camera over my shoulder?"

Looking up at the black bulb sticking out of the ceiling, the guy nodded.

"From a videotape shot by that camera," Warrick said calmly, "I viewed the killer sitting right here. Now, I'm going to call over someone from the staff and we're going to dust this machine, so I can find out who that guy was."

"What about me? What about my rights?"

"Do you want to cash out now, or you wanna wait in the bar till I'm done? That way you can get your machine back . . . protect your investment."

The guy gave him a sour look. "I'll be in the bar. Send a waitress over when you're finished."

"Thank you," Warrick said. "Be advised I may decide to print you, as well, sir-so I can eliminate your prints."

Grumbling about his right to privacy, the guy hauled away his plastic bucket (with several unopened rolls of quarters in it) and walked toward the bar, padding away in his socks and sandals. Right then a casino security officer came gliding up to Warrick.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked, his voice mingling solicitude and suspicion.

The guard was black and Warrick's height, more or less, but carried an extra forty pounds-apparently of muscle-on a broad-shouldered frame. That much was evident even through the guy's snug-fitting green sports coat with its BEACHCOMBER patch stitched over the pocket. The walkie-talkie he carried in a big hand looked like a candy bar.

Again, Warrick flashed his badge and explained the situation. "I need to see the slot host."

"I'll have to call my supervisor," the guard said.

"Okay."

The guard spoke into the walkie-talkie and, in less than two minutes, Warrick found himself surrounded by half a dozen of the crisply jacketed security guards, a green sea that parted for a California-ish guy in a double-breasted navy blue suit. Though he was the youngest of them, this one seemed to be the boss-six-one, blond, good-looking.

"I'm Todd Oswalt, the slot host," he said, extending his hand. He smiled, displaying the straight white teeth and practiced sincerity of a TV evangelist.

"Warrick Brown," the criminalist said, shaking with the guy, "crime lab following up on the murder, yesterday."

Oswalt's smile disappeared, his eyes darting around to see if any of the customers had heard Warrick. "Mr. Brown, we'll be happy to help you if you'll please, please just keep your voice down."

Now Warrick smiled. "Gladly, Mr. Oswalt. There was a man sitting here around five-thirty yesterday morning. I need to know everything about him that you can tell me."

"Based on what? We have a lot of patrons at the Beachcomber, Mr. Brown."

"This one used a slot card on this machine at 5:42 A.M yesterday."

Oswalt's eyes were wide; he nodded. "I'll get right on that."

"And while you're doing that," Warrick said, easily, "I'll need to fingerprint this machine."

Oswalt frowned, glanced around again. "Right now?"

"I could do it after business hours."

"We never close."

"Neither do we-so is there a better time than right now? Since I gotta be here anyway, while you're checking out that slot card?"

"Uh . . . your point is well taken. Go right ahead, Mr. Brown."

The slot host instructed two guards to stay nearby, then he and the other of his green-jacketed merry men disappeared. Warrick spent about an hour on the machine, at the end of which time he had dozens of prints and doubted that any of them would be of any use. There was just no telling how many people had tried this machine since the killer left.

Gesturing that burly guard over, Warrick said, "You can tell your boss I'm done."

The guard pulled out a walkie-talkie and talked into it. He listened, then turned back to Warrick. "We're supposed to escort you to the security office."

"Fine. And I need to have this machine held for a guy in the bar-can you send a cocktail waitress after him?"

"Sure thing. How will I know him?"

"He'll be the only bald guy with glasses wearing socks and sandals."

"All right. Man, you're certainly thoughtful."

"Hey, gamblers got it hard enough already."

The other guard was called over to escort Warrick, and the blond Oswalt was waiting for them at the security-office door. "We've got your information, Mr. Brown. The man's name is Peter Randall."

Warrick got out his notepad and pencil. "Address?"

"P.O. Box L-57, 1365 East Horizon in Henderson." Warrick felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He jotted the address down, knowing it would wind up being one of those damn rent-a-mailbox places. "Anything else, Mr. Oswalt?"

"Not really."

Warrick put the notepad away. "We're going to need to go back a few days, maybe a few weeks, to look for this guy some more-the tapes we have so far don't give us a look at his face."

"He could be a regular customer," Oswalt admitted.

"Right. How long to round up those tapes?"

"I'm short staff, and those tapes are stored-"

"How long, sir?"

Oswalt thought about it. "Tomorrow morning?"

"Can I look at them here?"

"We'd prefer it if you did."

Warrick nodded. "Thanks. I'll be back."

From the car, Warrick called Grissom and told him the name and address. Again Grissom approved him going alone-a killer was on the loose, and trails could go quickly cold.

The drive to Henderson-a community of stucco-laden homes aligned like green Monopoly houses, many of them behind walls and/or gates-took twenty minutes on the expressway. Just as he thought, the address belonged to a strip mall rent-a-box storefront.

The mailboxes ran down one wall, a long counter along the opposite one. The girl behind the counter might have been eighteen, her blue smock covering a slipknot T-shirt and faded jeans. Her hair was dishwater blonde and she had a silver stud through her left nostril.

"Can I help you?" she asked with no enthusiasm.

"Is the manager here?"

"No."

"Will he be back soon?"

"She," the girl corrected. "She just went to lunch."

"Do you know where?"

"Yeah, the Dairy Queen around the corner."

"Thanks," Warrick said. "Can you tell me her name?"

"Laurie."

This was like pulling teeth. "Last name?"

The girl thought for a moment. It seemed to cause her pain. "I dunno."

"You don't know?"

"Never came up."

"Yeah. Well. Thanks again." Meaning it, he said, "You've been a big help."

With the pep of a zombie, she said, "Come back any time."

Warrick walked to the Dairy Queen around the corner, spotted the woman who must be Laurie, sitting at a table alone, picking at an order of chicken strips and fries. She wore the same blue smock as the girl back at the store; her brown hair, cut at shoulder length, matched her brown eyes in a narrow, pretty face, and she appeared to be about six months pregnant. He went straight to her. "Laurie?"

She looked up and, guardedly, asked, "Do I know you?"

"No, ma'am. My name is Warrick Brown. I'm with the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau." He showed her his badge. "May I sit and talk to you for a moment?"

"Well . . ."

"It'll just take a few moments."

"I suppose. Can you tell me what this is about?"

Pulling out one of the plastic-and-metal chairs, Warrick joined her at the small square table. "I need to talk to you about one of your clients."

Laurie shook her head. "You know I can't talk to you about my clients without a warrant. Their privacy is at stake."

"This man is a killer and we can't waste time."

That impressed her, but still she shook her head again. "I'm sorry. I just can't . . ."

Warrick interrupted her. "His name is Peter Randall."

Her eyes tightened.

"What is it, Laurie?"

"Funny you should ask about Mr. Randall. He closed out his account just yesterday."

"Can you talk to me, off-the-record, while we're waiting for a warrant to arrive?"

Again she looked as if she didn't know what to do.

Warrick pulled out his phone, called Grissom, and explained the situation.

"Sara will be there with a warrant within the hour," Grissom said. "And I'll alert Brass."

While they waited, Laurie finished her lunch and they returned to the storefront. The nose-stud girl seemed as bored as ever, paying little attention to them as they came to the counter, Warrick staying on the customer side, Laurie going behind it. The woman had decided to cooperate-she asked him several times, "He's a murderer, right?"-and she pulled Randall's record right away.

"His home address?" Warrick asked.

Laurie looked at the file. "Forty-six fifteen Johnson, here in Henderson."

Warrick made a quick call on his cell to dispatch, for directions.

Moments later, he said, "Damn."

"What's the matter?"

"No Johnson Street or avenue or anything like it in Henderson. That's a fake address."

"Oh. I mean, we don't check these kind of things. We take our customers at their word."

Warrick went to Box L-57. "I know you can't open this for me, until the warrant arrives. But can you say whether or not Mr. Randall has cleared it out?"

"I'm afraid he has," Laurie said. "There's nothing in it-Mr. Randall emptied it when he closed his account.

"Shit."

"I'm sorry," Laurie said.

"You're just doing what I'm doing."

"Huh?"

He smiled at her. "Our jobs." She smiled back, and the nose-stud girl rolled her eyes.

Five minutes later, Sara-accompanied by Detective Erin Conroy-turned up with the warrant; he filled them both in on the situation.

Sara smirked and shook her head. "So, there's nothing?"

Warrick shrugged. "We can print the mailbox door, but that's about it. Looks like a dead end."

Conroy said, "I'll question her . . . what's her name?"

"Laurie," Warrick said.

"Last name?"

Embarrassed, he shrugged again. "Never came up."

Conroy just looked at him; then she went over to question the woman and put on the record the things that had been told to Warrick, off.

Sara sighed and said, "I gave up running prints for this?"

"You were tired of doing that, anyway."

She tried not to smile, but finally it broke through. "Yeah, I was."

"Well, you're gonna love it when I give you the dozens of prints I got off that slot machine."

"More prints. You find anything good?"

"Yeah." He leaned in conspiratorially, as Conroy's questioning echoed in the hollow storefront. "A Dairy Queen, around the corner. Lunch. You buy."

She clearly liked the sound of that; but as they were exiting, Sara nudged him in the ribs, saying, "Buy your own damn lunch."

Two hours later, back in the office, Warrick had already struck out with "Peter Randall"-an alias, of course-and Sara had run the prints from the casino, which had also proved worthless. And the guy's mailbox door had failed to yield a single usable print.

Laurie Miller, the manager, had waited on " Randall" both times he'd been in the store, and her description of him to Detective Conroy was painfully generic: dark glasses, dark baseball cap was all that got added to what the hotel tapes had already told them. A witness sketch would be worked up, but not much hope was held for it.

Backing up, Warrick decided to see what they could get on the footprints from the hallway.

Sara used a database that identified the running-shoe design as the probable product of a company called Racers; the match was not exact, due to the imperfect nature of the crime-scene footprint. So Warrick went online and found the number for the corporate office in Oregon.

"Racers Shoes and Athletic Apparel," said a perky female voice. "How may I direct your call?"

"My name is Warrick Brown. I'm with the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. I need to talk to someone about sales of different product lines of your shoes."

There was a silence at the other end.

Finally, Warrick said, "Hello?"

"I'm sorry, sir," the voice said. "I had to ask my supervisor how to route your call. I'm going to transfer you to Ms. Kotsay in sales."

"Thank you."

He heard a phone ring twice, then another female voice-somewhat older, more professional-said, "Sondra Kotsay-how may I help you?"

Warrick explained the situation.

"This is a most unusual request, Mr. Brown. We manufacture many lines of shoes."

"I know. And we have a tentative match from a database, already. But I could really use your expert confirmation."

"Am I going to have to testify?"

He smiled to himself. "Probably not. I'd just like to fax you a footprint."

"Oh," she said, "well, that would be fine," and gave him the number.

He chose not to send her the bloody print he'd highlighted with the Leuco Crystal Violet and instead sent her one from the landing that Grissom had obtained with the electrostatic print lifter.

A few minutes later, he was asking the woman, "Did you get that?"

There was a moment of silence on the line, then Sondra came back on the phone. "Came through fine," she announced. "Give me a little time. I'll call you back when I've got something."

How tired he was just dawning on him, Warrick wandered down to the break room and got himself some pineapple juice out of the fridge. He went to see Sara, at her computer, but she wasn't there. He tracked her down-in all places, at the morgue, standing over Dinglemann's corpse.

"You okay?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "No . . . I don't know."

"What?"

"Why are we working so hard to find out who killed this guy? Why am I busting my butt to find his killer?" She pointed at the body. "I mean, mob lawyer, getting the scum of the earth off, scot free . . ."

"Better not let Gris hear you talking like that."

She threw her gaze at him, and it was almost a glare. "I'm not talking to Grissom. I'm talking to you."

"You know it's not for us to decide." Warrick moved a little closer, so that Dinglemann lay between them. "This guy, he's past all that now. Good, evil-doesn't matter. He's been murdered. That puts him in the next world, if there is one-but his body's in our world."

She thought about that, then she shrugged. "Maybe it is that simple. I don't know. It's just . . . hard for me."

"Well, if you can't divorce yourself from the good and bad, think of the guy who did this. Somebody who takes money to take lives. That bad enough for you?"

She smiled, just a little. "Yeah. Yeah, that'll do it."

His cell phone rang and they both jumped. He almost dropped it in his haste to answer. "Warrick Brown."

"Sondra Kotsay, Mr. Brown. I think I can help you."

Waving at Sara that he had to take this call, Warrick went back down the hall to his office, grabbed a pad and plopped into his chair.

The professional voice said, "The print that you faxed us is for our X-15 running shoe."

"Okay."

"It's a line that, I'm sorry to say, has not done very well for us."

Warrick knew that the smaller the production run, the better his chances. "How many have been produced?"

"Before production stopped, just under one million pair."

His heart dropping to his stomach, his head drooping, he said, "A million?"

"I know that sounds daunting, Mr. Brown. But it's not that bad-at least not for you."

"Uh huh."

"Over half were never sold."

That helped-sort of. As she gave him her report, he scribbled the information on the pad.

"And of the remaining half-million," she said, "only about one hundred pair were sold in the greater Las Vegas area."

He was liking the sound of this more and more.

"The particular size that you gave us, men's size eleven, sold less than two dozen pair in the Vegas area."

The smile split his face nearly in half. "Thank you, Ms. Kotsay. Great work."

"Would you like the names and addresses of the retailers that sold them?"

Would you like to marry me? he thought. "Thank you, Ms. Kotsay-that would be incredibly helpful."

She faxed him the list.

And then Warrick Brown went looking for Grissom.

8

AS CATHERINE LOOKED ON, DR. ROBBINS MATCHED Malachy Fortunato's dental records against the teeth of the mummy. Both criminalist and coroner were in scrubs, but underneath his, Robbins was in a pinstriped shirt and diagonally striped tie with charcoal slacks; he'd had a court appearance today.

It was a little before seven P.M. -Catherine in early again, shift not officially beginning till eleven.

The coroner would study the dental X ray, then bend over the mummy, then straighten to check the X ray, a dance Robbins repeated half a dozen times before waving her over. "Catherine Willows, meet Malachy Fortunato."

She smiled. "At long last?"

Nodding, he said, "At long last-trust me, this is indeed the elusive Mr. Fortunato. We have a textbook dentalwork match."

"Well, well," she said, looking down at the mummy, her hands pressed together as if she were contemplating a fine meal. "Mr. Fortunato, it's nice to finally meet you. . . . Now that we know who you are, we'll see if we can't find your murderer."

The leathery mummy had no reply.

"Nice work, Doc," she said, and waved at Robbins on her way through the door.

"That's what I do," he said to the swinging door.

Out of her scrubs, Catherine ran into Nick, coming out of the lab.

"Hey," she said. "You're in early, too, I see."

"Hey," he said. But he looked a little glum. "DNA's going to take another week-they're completely backed up in there."

"Doesn't matter," she said with a grin. "Dr. Robbins just matched the dental records to our mummy-Malachy Fortunato."

"All right!"

"You did good with that ring, Nick."

"Thanks."

They headed into the break room for coffee. Nick poured, asking, "When was the last time this office solved a mob hit?"

"A week ago never. Surprisingly little of that in Vegas."

"Like they say, you don't defecate where you dine."

"I always try not to." She sipped her coffee, feeling almost giddy. "We're on a roll, Nick. Let's get this guy."

"Sure-what's fifteen years between friends?"

She half-frowned, half-smiled. "You tryin' to rain on my parade?"

"No way. No statute of limitations on murder. What do you need from me?"

She headed out of the break room, coffee cup in hand. "We'll get to that. First, let's go tell Grissom what we've got."

After Warrick explained what they'd turned up at the casino and at the storefront in Henderson, Grissom said, "This still doesn't prove he's local."

Grissom was behind his desk, jumbles of papers, a pile of binders seemingly about to topple, and an unfinished glass of iced tea cluttering the desk, as well as assorted displayed insect specimens, dead and alive. Warrick sat in one of the two chairs opposite his boss, and Sara leaned against a file cabinet in the corner.

Sara said, "But the maildrop-"

Grissom shook his head. "Our man could just be using the maildrop. And who knows how many slot cards he has in how many names, and in how many casinos . . . in how many towns."

"What about the shoe?" Warrick asked.

Grissom said, "That will help, particularly in ascertaining whether he's local. But half a million pair were sold nationally, you said."

Warrick nodded, unhappily.

Grissom continued: "For that shoe to be of any real benefit, we've got to find the foot that goes in it."

Sara smirked. "The guy attached to the foot would also be nice."

Warrick sighed and said, "Tomorrow morning, I can start watching the older tapes at the casino. If our man is local, that's a good place to look."

"It is," Grissom said, nodding. "No luck with the prints? Anything on 'Peter Randall'?"

"No and no," Sara said.

Warrick shook his head. "Gris, you really think we're going to track this guy down? I mean a mob hit . . ." He shrugged helplessly.

"You're thinking of that guy at the Sphere," Grissom said, "aren't you?"

Not so long ago, Warrick had worked the murder, still unsolved, of a bad debtor who had been shot to death in a glass elevator at the Sphere Hotel-that M.O., though different, also reeked mob.

"Maybe," Warrick said. "What makes this different?"

"Among other things," Grissom said, "the evidence."

Before Grissom could amplify, Brass came into his office from one direction, quickly followed by Catherine and Nick from the other. Brass, a stack of files tucked under an arm, gave Grissom a quick nod.

"We've got a positive ID from the dental records," Nick said, dropping into the chair next to Warrick. "Our mummy is Malachy Fortunato, a local who disappeared fifteen years ago, owing the mobbed-up casino bosses a whole lot of money. The mummy's a mob hit."

Warrick-who'd been kept in the dark about the similarity of the wounds on the two murder victims-sat forward, alert.

"The mummy seems to be," Grissom said. "I'm still not sure about Philip Dingelmann. But I do believe they were both shot by the same man."

With the exception of the blank-faced Brass, mouths dropped open all around the room.

The homicide detective stepped up and tossed the stack of files on Grissom's desk. "We're pretty sure both crimes are the work of an assassin the FBI has monikered, of course, 'The Deuce.' He is apparently responsible for at least forty contract killings across the length and breadth of our fine country, over a period approaching twenty years."

Perched in the doorway, Catherine asked, "How do you know?"

"By the signature," said Brass. "Two vertically placed small caliber wounds approximately an inch apart."

" 'Deuce,' " Warrick said dryly.

"But we're going to need more than just the signature," Grissom said, "to prove we're right that these murders share a murderer."

A brief discussion ensued, as those who knew about the similarities between the corpses skirmished with those who hadn't been in the know.

Finally Grissom notched up his voice. "We may have a legitimate coincidence in the discovery of these bodies," he said.

"The timing, you mean," Catherine said.

"Yes-Dingelmann was killed prior to the discovery of Fortunato's remains, but basically they were simultaneous, unconnected events . . . a murder going down just about the same time as a long-dead victim of the same killer is unearthed. And nothing here indicates the two murders have anything to do with each other. Nothing yet, anyway."

Nodding, Catherine said, "But the signature suggests the victims share a killer."

"Now that's a coincidence I can't accept," Grissom said. "That two different murderers, connected to two different mob-related murders, would have the same M.O."

Warrick said, "Two bullets in the back of the head, Gris, that's a sign of mob displeasure that goes way back."

"This is more specific-vertically placed shots in this exact same location, an inch apart. That struck me from the start, not as a coincidence, but as the signature we now know it is."

"How do we know?" Nick asked.

Grissom sat forward. "After I examined your mummy, Nick . . . Catherine . . . I told Jim my theory, and he got his people digging in the national computers."

Brass tapped the stack of files on Grissom's desk-twice. "This guy is not tied to any one organized crime family, in any one part of the country. He is apparently a freelancer with a shared client base-no one knows what he looks like and, as far as we can ascertain, no one's ever seen him in action . . . and lived to tell."

"We already knew we had a contract assassin who did mob hits," Sara pointed out. "We now believe two murders, fifteen years apart, were the work of the same assassin. Other than that . . . how does this help us?"

"It's more than we had," Grissom said. "We have context, now-we have direction."

"Swell," Catherine said. "What do we do different?"

"Nothing." His gaze met hers, then swept around the room including them all. "We still operate as if it's two separate cases . . . but now we keep everybody informed about what we learn. Catherine, you and Nick keep working on the mummy. Like Brass says, we need corroborating evidence. Find it."

"You want us to prove this is the same hitter," Nick said.

Catherine, an eyebrow arched, stared at Grissom.

He looked back at her for a second. "No," he said to Nick, but holding her gaze. "Follow the evidence-it's still possible we might have two murderers."

Catherine smiled.

"What about the farm team?" Sara asked.

Grissom turned to Warrick. "Watch those hotel tapes till your eyes bleed. . . . Sara, I want you to find out everything that's known about this killer. Study the files, but dig deeper. Look for linkages. Maybe other investigators missed something."

She nodded.

"Nicky," Grissom said, "get the bullets from both cases to the firearms examiners for ballistics tests."

"Sure thing," Nick said. "But, uh . . ."

"But what?"

Nick shrugged. "We already know the riflings on the bullets match the gun barrel found half-buried next to Mr. Fortunato."

Grissom nodded. "The killer ditched the barrel, yes, but maybe he didn't ditch the gun. We've still got bullets with a matching caliber on these two murders. We've got to cover all the bases."

Warrick had been studying his boss, and his voice conveyed confusion as he said, "I don't get it, Gris. Why do you think Dingelmann may not have been a mob hit?"

"Just staying objective."

"I'm the subjective asshole," Brass said, pointing a thumb to himself. "Philip Dingelmann was getting ready to represent Charlie 'The Tuna' Stark in the biggest mob trial since Gotti-why kill him? He's a golden mouthpiece, who'd already gotten Frischotti off, and Vinci, and the two Cleveland guys, Tucker and Myers."

"What was he doing in Vegas?" Warrick wondered aloud.

Brass shrugged. "This was probably his last chance to blow off steam, 'fore going into the tunnel of the trial."

Nodding, Warrick said, "Yeah, yeah . . . but why kill him?"

No one had an answer for that.

"Let Jim here worry about motive," Grissom told his unit. "Concentrate on the only witnesses who never lie: the evidence."

Nods and smiles, all around-they'd heard it before.

Brass said, "We've done a lot over the years to get the mob influence out of this city. We need to catch this son of a bitch to remind these scumbags this is not their turf anymore-it's never going to be like the old days again."

The homicide detective told Grissom the files were copies for the unit, reminded the others to stay in touch, and slipped out.

"Personally," Grissom said, now that Brass was gone, "I think we owe less to the city fathers, and more to our two victims. Time doesn't lessen the injustice done to Malachy Fortunato-and an unsavory client list doesn't justify what was done to Philip Dingelmann."

Warrick and Sara exchanged glances.

"So," Grissom said, cheerfully. "Let's go to work."

Outside the office, Catherine stopped Nick with a hand on his elbow. "After you get those bullets dropped off, can you check something for me?"

"Sure-what?"

"Mrs. Fortunato mentioned a dancer her husband was involved with at the time of his disappearance. She said the dancer . . . a stripper . . . disappeared the same day as her husband."

"Do we have a name?" Nick asked.

"Joy Starr. It may be a stage name. . . ."

"You think?"

"Either way, Nicky, we need to find her if she's out there somewhere. Preferably, alive."

"You mean she could be another corpse, hidden away someplace?"

"Definite possibility."

Nick sighed. "Know anything else about her?"

"Not much. She worked at Swingers-that dive out on Paradise Road. When she was dancing, it would have been a little nicer than now."

"And?"

"And what?"

"She worked in a strip club before disappearing fifteen years ago? That's it?"

"That's it. Maybe you can round up one of Brass's people and go out there-though this many years later . . . Check the newspaper websites first. Check missing-persons records-she apparently dropped out of sight when Fortunato did."

He shot her one of his dazzlers. "Hey, if you want me to hang out at a strip club, I guess I can make the sacrifice."

"First, check the records. That club, at this late date, is a real long shot."

"Okay. What about you?"

Catherine was on the move already. "I'm going back to the house. Back when Malachy wasn't a mummy yet, this was a missing persons case. Now it's the scene of a murder."

"A crime scene," Nick said, understanding.

Catherine wheeled the Tahoe out of the lot and pointed it toward the Fortunato home. She was considering calling in O'Riley, but decided against it. This was an evidential fishing expedition, and didn't involve interrogation; not a lot of point in him wasting time, too.

On her way, on her cell phone, she called the Fortunato home, got Gerry Hoskins, and asked if it would be all right to come around at this time of evening.

When she arrived, Catherine told Mr. Hoskins what she would be doing and got his okay. Annie was lying down, he said, and he wanted her to try and rest, after the stress of today's news.

Understandable.

While Catherine prepared, Hoskins moved their two cars out of the driveway and onto the street. The scene had been done once, fifteen years ago, and now she hoped to turn up something those guys had missed. Although massive changes had occurred in the science of investigation since then, sometimes you just had to fall back on the old stuff.

Hauling the metal detector from the back of the Tahoe, Catherine pulled the headphones on, cranked the machine up, and started at the end of the driveway nearest the street. Moving slowly back and forth, Catherine combed the driveway. In the original Fortunato file, there had been nothing about shell casings; of course, blood on the gravel drive or not, the detectives hadn't known they were searching a murder scene.

And the file said nothing about the discovery of shell casings.

Even though the sun had long since started its descent, the fiery orange ball seemed in no hurry to drop behind the mountains, the heat still hunkered down on the city, settling in for the long haul. If she weren't at a crime scene, she wouldn't have minded one of those refeshing if rare summer rains, though that would bring the danger of flash flooding.

She made it all the way to the far end of the carport and nothing had registered on the metal detector. Her shoulders ached, her eyes burned, and she seemed to be sweating from every pore in her body. She'd been working crazy hours, even for her. Taking the headphones off, she ran a hand through her matted hair and pulled a paper towel out of her pocket to mop her forehead.

"Brutal, huh?"

Mildly startled, Catherine turned to see Annie Fortunato standing there, holding two large glasses of lemonade, a smoke draped from her lip. The woman of the house handed one of the moisture-beaded glasses to Catherine.

"Why, thank you, Mrs. Fortunato."

"Would you stop that? Call me Annie."

"Sure. Thanks, Annie." Catherine took a long gulp from the icy glass. "You're saving my life."

The woman shrugged. "It's just powdered . . . but this hot, even that junk'll hit the spot."

Smiling, Catherine nodded and pressed the cool glass against her forehead.

Mrs. Fortunato removed her cigarette long enough to gesture with it toward the metal detector. "What're you lookin' for out here, with that thing?"

"Frankly," Catherine said, seeing no reason to withhold the information, "I was hoping to find the shell casings from the bullets that killed your husband."

She frowned in alarm. "You think he was shot . . . here?"

"Blood was found."

"Yes, but . . . I didn't hear any shots, and I was a light sleeper. Hell, I still am."

"The killer could have used a noise suppresser-a silencer. . . . Are you okay with me being so blunt?"

"Hell yes. I had my cry. Go on."

"Anyway, the gun barrel we found with your husband's body belonged to an automatic. That means shell casings, which had to go somewhere."

Mrs. Fortunato nodded, apparently seeing the logic of that. "Well-you havin' any luck?"

Catherine sighed. "No, not really-and it would have been a lucky break if we had." She took another big drink of the lemonade. "I'm going over it one more time, before I hang it up."

Mrs. Fortunato was studying Catherine. "You know, I want to thank you for what you've done."

Catherine didn't know how to react. "You're welcome, Mrs. Fortunato . . . but I haven't really done anything yet."

The woman sipped at her lemonade, then puffed on her ever-present cigarette, and a tear trickled down her cheek. "Yes, you did. I know Malachy wasn't perfect, but he was . . ." The tears overtook her. She stubbed out the cigarette on the ground.

Catherine put her arm around the woman.

"Shit, I had my cry."

"It's all right," Catherine said, "it's all right."

"Don't get me wrong-I love Gerry!"

"I know. It shows."

Something wistful, even youthful touched the woman's well-grooved face. "But, Mal, he was the love of my life. You only have one-and sometimes they're even sonuvabitches . . . you know what I mean?"

Catherine smiled a little. "I'm afraid so."

"When you brought me his ring out here today, well, I finally knew what happened to him. No more wondering, weaving possibilities in the middle of the night . . . that's why I say, 'thank you.' "

Squeezing the woman to her, Catherine said, "In that case, Annie, you're very welcome."

Catherine walked her over to the stoop and they sat on the cement, where they finished their lemonade in silence, the sun finally touching the horizon, the sky turning shades of violet and orange and red.

Finally Mrs. Fortunato said, "I better get back inside. I need a cigarette. You want to join me?"

"No, thanks." Catherine rose. "I better get going, if I'm going to get this done before it's too dark to see."

"I'll turn on the outside lights." Picking up the empty glasses, the woman said, "If you want some more lemonade, holler."

"I will," Catherine answered, and returned to the metal detector as Mrs. Fortunato disappeared back into the house. Again Catherine slipped on the headphones.

"High tech," she said to herself wryly.

Starting at the back end of the carport, Catherine swept back and forth holding the three-foot handle, the disk-shaped detector barely two inches off the black asphalt. The machine always made her back hurt from the slightly stooped posture she assumed working it. Halfway back through the carport, on the side nearest the house, she got a tiny hit.

It was so small, at first she thought her ears were playing tricks on her. Over and back, over and back, the same spot, each time-the small sound echoing in her head.

Might be a shell casing, might be a screw, could be anything. One thing for sure, though: it was definitely something, something metallic. She pulled out her cell phone and punched Grissom's number on speed dial.

"Grissom."

"I think I've got something here," Catherine said.

"What?"

She explained the situation. "Any ideas?"

"Maybe. Give me half an hour. How's your relationship with the homeowners?"

"They love me."

"Good. Get permission to dig a hole."

". . . In their asphalt driveway?"

"Not in their flower bed."

"Oh-kay, Gil, I'll be waiting." She pressed END, slipped the phone away as she walked to the front door, where she knocked.

Gerry Hoskins, still in T-shirt and jeans, opened the screen.

"I think I may have found something," Catherine said.

Mrs. Fortunato had apparently filled him in already, as he did not hesitate. "I'll get Annie."

By the time Grissom showed up, the three of them stood in the yard, waiting. Catherine met Grissom at the Tahoe. "Are you going to do what I think you're going to do?"

"No-we are. And it's going to be slow and it's probably going to be messy."

He and Catherine put on coveralls and carried the equipment to the spot she'd marked on the asphalt. She handed him the headphones so he could hear the faint tone.

"All right," he said. "Let's get started."

Catherine watched as he picked up a small propane torch and lit it. She asked him, "Is this going to work?"

"It's the only way I could think of that would give us a decent chance of preserving the evidence. If that's what it is."

The torch glowed orange-blue in the darkness.

"I hope so," she said, worried. "This is a lot of trouble to go through if I just located some kid's lunch money."

Grissom smiled. "Then we'll turn the treasure over to these good citizens, with our thanks."

On their hands and knees, with only the porch light to aid them, they hovered over the area as Grissom held the torch to the spot she had marked. As the asphalt softened from the heat, Catherine carefully dug the material out with a garden trowel. The closer they got to the bottom, the slower they went. Grissom held the torch further away, heating smaller and smaller sections of the carport at a more measured pace. Catherine now used a table spoon to scrape away the heated asphalt, and a miniflash to light the area as she scoured it for the bit of metal that had pinged her detector.

Finally, after nearly two hours of this tedious labor, her knees killing her from kneeling, and with bits of the old gravel visible at the bottom of their short trench, Catherine saw something that looked out of place.

"Hold it," she said.

Grissom pulled back even further. "You see something?"

She said, "I think so," and moved forward, shining the light down at the hole. Setting the spoon aside, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and carefully picked at the edge of the hole. Her gloves were no match for the hot asphalt and she had to be careful. She poked and prodded at the spot until finally the thing popped loose.

Grissom turned off the torch and took her flashlight, so she could use both hands.

Scooping up the small dark object, she juggled it from palm to palm, blowing on it as it cooled. He shone the light on the thing in her hand. Small, about the size of a fingertip and about a third the diameter, the object was obviously metal but covered with the sticky black mess.

"When we get back to the lab and clean all this goop off," she said, holding the object up to the light, "I think we'll find we have a twenty-five-caliber shell casing."

Grissom said nothing, but his eyes were as bright as the torch, right before he shut it off.

9

FOR NEARLY TWO HOURS SARA IMMERSED HERSELF IN THE files Brass had provided, learning several significant facts the rumpled homicide detective had failed to mention.

While the killer's career covered nearly twenty years, only a handful of thumb prints from shell casings linked a single suspect to any of the murders. The two vertical bullet holes approximately one inch apart, his signature, had shown up in forty-two murders (prior to this week's discoveries) in twenty-one states. Interestingly, the signature seemed to have dropped off the planet just under five years ago. Their very new murder-the dead mob attorney in the Beachcomber hallway-was the only known exception.

Nick popped in. "Any luck?"

"Predicatably, Brass missed a few things," Sara said.

File folder in hand, he took a seat beside her.

She filled him in quickly, concluding, "I'm not sure any of this is stop-the-presses stuff. How about you?"

"Tests are going to take a while," Nick said.

Her chin rested in her palm, elbow propped against the desk. "There is one other little item Brass overlooked."

"Yeah?"

"None of the investigators seem to have made it an issue, but . . ."

"Give."

"The bodies of victims are found . . . although who knows how many other vics, like your mummy, remain hidden away . . . but their cars? Never."

"I'm not sure I'm following you."

"Okay, I'll give you the large print version. Take Malachy Fortunato-did the police ever find his car? Both he and his wheels were missing from that driveway, remember."

Nick, thinking that over, said, "I'd have to check the file for sure, but you know . . . I think you're right."

"Of course I'm right." She leaned toward him. "Hey, trust me-nobody's seen that car since it pulled outa the driveway that morning . . . with Mr. Fortunato most likely riding in the trunk."

"And a pretty darn docile passenger, I'd bet," Nick said. "But what about Dingelmann?"

"That, I grant you, doesn't fit the pattern," she said. "But then, Dingelmann didn't have a car. Took the shuttle from the airport."

"No rental?"

"No rental. Doorman saw Dingelmann taking cabs a couple of times."

Nick was interested. "All the victims' cars disappeared?"

"If they had cars, yeah. Also, victims tended to disappear from home, from work, or some other familiar haunt-and the bodies turned up elsewhere."

Nick was nodding. "Dumped, here and there."

"That would seem a reasonable assumption . . . of course you know how Grissom feels about assumptions."

Nick gestured to the stack of file folders. "Anything else in there we can use?"

"Well," she said, shrugging, "there is one thing I can't quite get a handle on."

"Which is?"

Sara went back into full analytical mode. "For some reason this prolific, professional assassin disappears almost five years ago. Why does he show up now? Especially if Grissom's on to something, and Dingelmann wasn't a mob hit . . . in which case, what the hell is this guy doing in Vegas, getting proactive again, all of a sudden?"

With a shrug, Nick said, "Maybe he was hired by somebody else."

"Like who?"

"Dingelmann's ex-wife, a disgruntled business partner, who knows? Just because no bodies have turned up with that distinctive 'Deuce' signature doesn't mean our man hasn't been active."

"Yeah, yeah, possible, possible-and we know at least one instance when he hid a body. So what do you think?"

Nick threw his hands palms up.

"You suppose Grissom wants to hear . . ." She mimicked his gesture.

"Okay," he said, rising, throwing a grin off to the sidelines, "I get it-more digging."

Sara gave him a mock sweet smile. "Well, don't go away mad-what have you dug up, thus far? I showed you mine, you show me yours."

His smile in return was almost embarrassed, and he laughed, and leaned against the doorjamb and said, "I went to the website for the Las Vegas Sun, and plowed through all the old newspaper coverage on Fortunato and his disappearance, him and this dancer he was involved with . . . as well as going over the original file for the dancer's disappearance. She was also officially a missing person, it turns out."

Sara frowned in interest. "Dancer?"

"Exotic type. A stripper. Innocent child like you wouldn't know about such things."

"Catherine would."

Nick grinned. "Yeah-that's where I heard about 'Joy Starr'-stripper having an affair with casino employee Fortunato . . . a stripper who disappeared on the same day as casino employee Fortunato."

Sara was grinning; she made a yummy sound. "This is getting good."

"Seems 'Joy Starr' was a stage name for a Monica Petty. I'm going to turn the name over to Brass, see what he can do with it."

"But you might just ride along to the strip club with him."

"I might. . . . She was a doll, in her day."

"Joy whatever?"

"Starr." Nick pulled a photo from the file folder, handed it to Sara. "Next on the bill, ladies and germs-the exotic dance stylings of Joy Starr."

"Cue the ZZ Top," Sara said, looking at an 8-inch by 10-inch head shot of a pretty, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman of maybe twenty-one, with that overteased '80s-style hair. "That's some mall hair."

"What?"

She laughed a little. "That's what we used to call it, my girlfriends and me-mall hair."

"You ever have hair like that?" he asked, puckishly. "Middle school maybe?"

"I was a heartbreaker then," she said, "and I'm a heartbreaker now. Run before you get hurt, Nicky."

"Ouch," he said, glanced again at the photo, then tucked it back in the folder, and went back to his work.

Once she and Grissom had returned, Catherine went directly into the lab and spent the next hour painstakingly cleaning the asphalt off the casing, dabbing it with acetone, doing everything within her power to make sure she did not damage it. Preserving fingerprints was a hopeless cause, but the casing itself could have other tales to tell.

She found the firearms examiner, a friendly twenty-eight-year veteran named Bill Harper, already examining the bullets that Nick had brought in earlier.

Harper's longish curly gray hair looked typically uncombed and he apparently hadn't missed a meal at least since the Nixon administration; but Catherine knew there was no better firearms examiner in the state.

"Anything?" she asked him.

"Not much," he replied.

"Nothing?"

"Something, but . . ." He shrugged and stepped away from the microscope, gesturing for her to look. She stepped up and looked down at two different shells. Obviously they had not come from the same barrel.

"Rifling's completely different," he said. "Of the four shells, each pair matches, but the two pairs don't match. The pair from the mummy matches the barrel found with the body. These other two slugs are strangers. The only commonality between pairs is they're all the same caliber."

Nodding, Catherine pulled back from the microscope and held up three evidence bags. "You want to take a crack at the shell casings?"

Harper's brow creased in interest. "What have you got?"

"Number one is from our mummy, two and three here are from the shooting at the Beachcomber."

"Sure," Harper said. "Understand, this could take a while."

"I'll wait," she said, sitting down at Harper's desk in the corner, allowing herself to lean back.

Watching him work, she counted the hours since she had last slept. Somewhere around twenty-four, she nodded off.

Greg Sanders found Nick at a computer, and presented him with the DNA match for Malachy Fortunato.

"Thanks, Greg. Matched the dental already though."

"Gran Turismo is still a deal, right?"

"I don't renege on a man who controls so much of my destiny."

"Smart move." Sanders shrugged. "Not much off the guy's shoes, either. He'd been on some sort of loose rock. Driveway maybe. That make any sense to you?"

"Yes it does," Nick said. "What about the cigarette filter?"

Sanders smirked. "That piece of crud was about fifteen years old-barely anything left."

"Way it goes."

Now Sanders grinned; the demented gleam in his eyes meant he was proud of himself. "Got some DNA off it though."

Nick sat up. "You're kidding."

"Not workable, though."

This guy was a walking good news/bad news joke. "Thanks, dude," Nick said wearily. "I'll bring that game in tomorrow."

"Yes!" Eyes dancing with joy-stick mania, Sanders departed.

Nick Stokes spent two hours trying to find Brass and had no luck; the detective was not answering his page, so finally Nick decided he'd make the first run out to Swingers himself. At least the change of pace might help him stay awake. Figuring he'd be a nice guy about it, he went hunting for Warrick, to give his fellow CSI a chance to tag along.

He found Warrick in a darkened lab, his head on a counter, snoring. With the hours they'd all been working, this made a whole lot of sense to Nick; and, instead of waking his co-worker, Nick retreated and closed the door.

Grissom's door, usually open, was shut now, lights off. The boss had kept pretty much to himself since returning with Catherine, and Nick wondered whether to bother him. On the other hand, if he didn't check with him, Grissom might be pissed-and Nick hated that.

He knocked on the door.

"Yeah," came the tired voice from the other side.

Nick opened the door and stuck his head into the darkened office. "Boss-hey, I don't mean to disturb you."

"Get the switch, will you?"

Nick did, bathing the room in fluorescent light.

Grissom, catching a nap on the couch, sat up; his graying hair was mussed, black clothes rumpled.

"You look like hell."

"Thanks," Grissom said, getting to his feet, stretching, "you too." Grissom met Nick at the doorway. "What?"

"Did Catherine tell you about the dancer that disappeared, same night as Fortunato?"

Little nod. "Yeah."

"Well, she used to work at this place called Swingers."

"On Paradise Road," Grissom said. He rubbed his eyes, yawned a little. "Sorry."

"Even you get to be human."

"No I don't. And don't let me catch you at it, either."

Nick couldn't tell if Grissom was joking or not; drove him crazy.

"That place still open?" Grissom asked, meaning Swingers.

"Should be," Nick said, with a thumb-over-his-shoulder gesture. "I thought I'd go out there, see if anybody remembered her."

"That's Brass's responsibility."

Nick shrugged. "Can't find him."

"O'Riley?"

Nick shook his head. "Off duty."

"Conroy?"

"The same."

Grissom considered the possibilities. "Take Warrick with you."

"He's snoring in a lab," Nick said. "I don't think he's slept in, I dunno, twenty-four hours."

"Okay," Grissom said casually, "then let's go."

Nick reacted as if a glass of cold water had been thrown in his face. "What-you and me?"

Cocking his head, Grissom gave Nick a look. "Something wrong with that?"

Hurriedly, Nick said, "No, no, it's fine. You want to drive?"

"That's okay. You drive . . . but this isn't official, understand. We're just taking a break."

"Right."

"Give me a second to brush my teeth."

"Sure, boss."

"And, uh-brush yours, too. There'll be ladies present."

Shaking his head, Nick went to quickly freshen up. Every conversation with Grissom was always a new experience.

The clapboard barn-looking building housing Swingers squatted on Paradise Road, a couple of miles southeast of McCarren Airport. Fifty years ago, before the tide of the city rolled out here to engulf it, the place had been a particularly prosperous brothel. Now, with the paint peeling and the gutters sagging, the structure looked like a hooker who'd stayed a little too long in the trade.

Even though Vegas was a twenty-four-hour town, the strip joint closed at three A.M., though the red neon SWINGERS sign remained on, with its pulsing electric outline of a dancing woman. Nick eased the Tahoe into a parking place with only about five minutes to spare. Perhaps half a dozen cars dotted the parking lot, with only a battered Honda parked near the Tahoe and the front door.

"Slow night," Nick said.

"Experience?" Grissom asked.

"I mean, looks like," Nick said. "Looks like a slow night. I wouldn't really know."

Skepticism touched Grissom's smile.

A shaved-bald, short-goateed bouncer met them at the door; he wore a bursting black muscle T-shirt and black jeans. "We're closing," he growled. Maybe six-four, the guy had no discernible neck, cold dark eyes, and a rottweiler snarl.

Nick said, "We're . . ."

"We're closed," the bouncer repeated. "We look forward to fillin' your entertainment needs some other night."

Nick keep trying. "We're from the Las Vegas . . ."

The bouncer's eyes bulged, his upper lip formed half a sneer. "Are you deaf, dipshit?"

Grissom stepped between the two men, showed the bouncer his badge. "Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau."

The bouncer didn't move. "So?"

"We'd just like to speak with the owner."

"About what?"

Giving the big man a friendly smile, Grissom said, "Well, that would be between us and him."

The bouncer's eyebrows lifted; he remained unimpressed. "Well, then, you girls must have a warrant."

Nick's patience snapped. "Just to talk, we don't need a warrant!"

The bouncer glared and took one ominous step forward.

"Forgive my co-worker's youthful enthusiasm," Grissom said, moving between them again, getting in close to the guy, keeping his voice low.

The soft-sell caught the bodyguard off-balance-Grissom had the guy's attention.

With an angelic smile, Grissom said, "You'd like us to get a warrant? Fine, I'll make a call and we'll do just that. I can have it here in ten minutes. . . . Of course, in the meantime no one leaves the premises, and when it gets here we'll come in and find every gram, every ounce, every grain of any illegal drug here. Of course we'll do background checks on all the girls working here, to make sure they're of legal age. After that comes the fire marshal and the building inspector." He flipped his phone open. "I'm ready if you are."

Suddenly smiling, the bouncer patted the air in front of him. "Whoa, whoa. The owner? I think he's back in the office. Just a minute. You can wait at the bar." He pointed inside. "Anything you want, on the house."

They strolled into the smoky room, where southern rock music blared, neon beer signs burning through the haze, the walls rough, gray barnwood that never met primer let alone paint. A dozen men were present. The bouncer was disappearing toward the back.

"Nice work," Nick said.

Not surprisingly, the bar smelled of stale beer, cigarettes, urine and testosterone-not the most attractive joint in town, but low maintenance. Green-and-white plastic tables and chairs-lawn furniture-were scattered around the room. They faced a stage that ran most of the length of the far wall, chairs lining it for the front-row patrons; the only show-biz accouterments were cheap colored lights and two fireman's poles, one at either end of the stage.

A skinny blonde was sliding down one of the poles, half a dozen customers watching. Wadded-up dollars were scattered about the hardwood floor of the stage like so much green refuse.

To the left edge of the stage a doorway said DANCERS ONLY -this was where the bouncer had gone, and was clearly the pathway to the dressing room and the owner's office. Nick and Grissom stood at the right end of a U-shaped oak bar. Behind it, a tired-looking blonde woman of at least forty, wearing only a skimpy bikini, gave Nick the eye as she washed glasses in one sink and rinsed them in the next one.

"We just had last call, fellas," she said over the blare of southern rock, the flirtation heavy in her voice. "But if you want somethin', who knows? I been known to make exceptions."

She might be too old to strip, but she remained attractive enough to hustle.

"We're fine," Grissom said.

Frowning now, but still eyeing Nick, the woman resumed washing glasses, pumping them up and down on the brushes. The action was not lost on Nick and he turned away before allowing himself a little chuckle. Grissom either didn't notice, or was pretending as much.

The bouncer came out of the DANCERS ONLY door, holding it open for a thin young man who looked like a high school kid in his low-slung jeans and UNLV T-shirt; neither one, Nick knew, was a "dancer" he would pay to see perform. The young guy had curly blond hair, a scruffy goatee and a gun metal gray barbell stud through his left eyebrow.

"Wanna talk to me?" he asked, in a voice not far removed from puberty.

Nick couldn't help himself. "You're the owner?"

"I'm the manager." The kid looked from Grissom to Nick. "You boys got a problem with that?"

Both criminalists shook their heads.

The kid gestured. "You mind if we step outside? I don't want to bother the customers-few we got left, tonight."

They moved into the parking lot, where a desert breeze stirred weeds surrounding the driveway. The flush of red neon bathed them as their conversation ensued, during which an occasional customer or two would exit to their cars.

Forehead tensed, Grissom asked, "How old are you?"

Neon buzzed, shorting out, like a bug zapper.

"Twenty-three," the kid said. "I'm workin' on my MBA at UNLV. This place is paying for it. My uncle owns it. Hey, I'm a business major-works out swell for both us."

"What's your name?"

"John Pressley."

"Like Elvis?" Grissom asked.

"Like Elvis but with two s's."

Nick had his notepad out, and was jotting that down, as he asked, "How long has your uncle owned this business?"

"Not very-couple years. It was an investment property."

"I see. Can you tell us anything about the previous owner?"

Pressley gave him a dubious look. "Why?"

"We're trying to find a woman who danced here fifteen years ago. Way before your time."

Pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket, Pressley lit up; he looked at Nick, then at Grissom, as if taking their measure.

"Marge," he finally said. "Great old broad. She owned this dump forever."

That piece of information was a nice break, Nick thought, and asked, "What was her last name, do you remember?"

"Sure. Kostichek. Marge Kostichek." He spelled it for Nick, who wrote the name down.

"Address?"

The kid puffed on the cigarette. "I got no idea-you're gonna have to work harder than that, guys."

Grissom smiled the angelic smile again. "How hard, Mr. Pressley?"

"Oh, she's still around. You could probably find her in the phone book. Let your fingers do the walkin'."

"Thanks," Nick said.

The kid raised his studded eyebrow. "You gonna hassle us anymore?"

Grissom stepped forward. "Is Marge Kostichek the straight skinny, or are you blowing smoke?"

Keeping his eyes on Grissom, Pressley snorted a laugh and said, "She's so real I can't believe you never heard of her. She's a legend in this business, man."

"She pans out," Grissom said, "no hassles."

"Yeah . . . for how long?"

"Till next time," Grissom said, pleasantly, and led the way as they walked toward the Tahoe.

Outside, Grissom said, "Let's go back to the office. We'll find an address for Marge Kostichek, and you can round up Conroy or Brass to go with you."

"Yeah," Nick said. "Uh, Grissom."

"Yeah?"

" 'Straight skinny'?"

Grissom just smiled, and Nick laughed.

They climbed back into the Tahoe and Nick started the engine. They were passing the airport when Grissom finally spoke again. "I guess you've picked up on my being hesitant to let you out on your own."

Nick said nothing.

"You don't like that much, do you?"

Turning, Nick met Grissom's eyes, but he said nothing.

"You know why that is, don't you?"

Nick shrugged. "You don't think I'm ready." A traffic-light turned red and Nick braked to a stop.

"I know you're not ready."

Nick turned to his boss and even he could hear the earnestness in his voice. "You're wrong, Grissom. I'm ready. I'm so ready."

Grissom shook his head.

The light turned green and Nick fought the urge to stomp on the gas. He slid ahead slowly.

"That bouncer," Grissom.

Embarrassed, Nick said, "Yeah, yeah . . ."

"If I hadn't stepped in, you'd have wound up in a fight with a citizen. Which would have led to suspension for you, and a black eye for our unit."

"I just . . ." Nick stopped. He knew Grissom was right and somehow that made him even angrier. He looked down at the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

"You forgot why you were there," Grissom said, "and let it turn into some kind of . . . macho foolishness. The case is the thing, Nick. It's the only thing."

Nick hung his head. "You're right. I know."

"Don't beat yourself up-fix it."

"Yeah, I will. Thanks, Grissom."

"Anyway, this is a good example of why we let Brass and his guys handle the people. We're better at evidence."

"Hey," Nick said, pulling into the Criminalistics parking lot, "we didn't do so bad, end of the day, did we?"

"Not so bad," Grissom admitted.

"Of course I'm not so sure we needed to brush our teeth."

In the firearms lab, Bill Harper laid a hand on Catherine's shoulder and she jumped.

"Sorry," he said, jumping back himself.

"No! No, I'm sorry. I must have . . ."

"Slept for hours?" he offered.

"Oh, no, I couldn't have. . . ."

He pointed at the clock on the lab wall.

"Oh, my God," she said, flushed with embarrassment. "I'm really sorry, Bill."

His smile told her it was okay. "Hey, it was all right-you seemed to need it. You really looked bushed."

"Do I look any better?"

"Catherine, few look any better, at their worst. . . . Go wash up, and then we'll talk."

With a reluctant smile, she took his advice.

Ten minutes later she returned from the locker room to the lab, face washed, hair combed. She hated to admit her own human frailty, but she felt worlds better after the nap. "Okay, Bill, what have you got?"

"Have a look at the monitor."

She looked at the computer screen on Harper's work table and saw the butt ends of two casings next to each other.

"What do you see, Catherine?"

Studying the two images, she said, "Twenty-five caliber, one Remington, one Winchester."

He pointed to the primers.

"They've both been struck," she added.

"They've both been struck-identically." Reaching over, he clicked the mouse and the two primers suddenly filled the screen. He pointed out three different bumps. They were correspondingly placed on each primer.

She could feel her whole face light up as she smiled. "The same firing pin?"

He nodded. "Helluva thing, ain't it? Fifteen years apart-two different crimes . . . same firing pin."

Catherine took a step back.

Harper clicked again and the picture zoomed back out to show the ends of the casings. "And look here," he said, pointing to tiny barely visible indentations at four points on the end of the cartridge, "this is where each one hit the breech wall."

She felt almost giddy. "You're going to tell me they're identical, too, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am-and that ain't all. . . . The scratches from the extractor, when the shell was ejected?"

She nodded her understanding.

Harper grinned. "They match too."

Catherine let out a long breath, shaking her head, amazed and delighted at the findings. "He's using the same gun . . . and thinks he's fooling ballistics, changing out the barrels. Grissom was right-Malachy Fortunato and Philip Dingelmann were killed by the same gun, presumably the same killer, fifteen years apart."

Harper said, "That's what the evidence says."

"And that's what Grissom likes to hear," Catherine said, on her way out. "Thanks, Harper-I needed this as much as that nap. More!"

Grissom sat behind his desk, munching a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich. He sipped his glass of iced tea, and looked up to see a figure pause in his open doorway-a man maybe six-one in a well-tailored light blue suit, muscularly trim, with blond hair combed slickly back from a high forehead, and a strong, sharp nose, narrow blue eyes . . . and a smile of cobra warmth.

"Special Agent Rick Culpepper," Grissom said, setting his iced tea carefully back on his desk. "Up late, or early?"

"How do you stand these hours?" The FBI agent smiled his oily smile. "With all the people you encounter, I'm complimented you remember me."

"How could I forget?" Grissom gave the agent a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. "You're the man who tried to get one of my CSIs killed, using her as bait."

Strolling uninvited into the office, Culpepper said, "My God, you're still upset about that? Sara Sidle volunteered, and everything came out fine-let it go, Grissom. Get past it."

"I have trouble getting past you using . . . misusing . . . my people, Culpepper. We're busy here. What do you want?"

"You're takin' a lunch break," Culpepper said, nodding to the half-eaten sandwich Grissom had put down. "I won't eat up any of your precious crime-solving time. . . . Relax, buddy. Ever think I might be here to help?"

Bullshit, Grissom thought; but he said nothing. He would let the FBI agent do all the work.

Sitting, Culpepper said, "Your people ran a print from a shell casing through AFIS."

"We do that a lot."

"Yes, and your federal government is glad to be of service."

"Do you have a specific print in mind?"

Culpepper nodded. "Related to a recent shooting at a resort hotel-the Beachcomber."

"We got no match from that."

"That's right. That's because a little flag went up-AFIS wasn't allowed to make that match-classified information."

"Is that the federal cooperation you mentioned?"

"The man who belongs to that print is a contract assassin. No one knows what he looks like, or who he is . . . but we've been looking for him ourselves, for a long, long time. And that's why I'm here-to share information."

"Well thank you," Grissom said. "Let me think-when was the last time the FBI shared anything? Blame excluded."

Leaning forward, wearing a disingenuous grin, Culpepper said, "I know we've had our differences in the past, Grissom-but this is a crucial matter. It relates to a plethora of organized crime matters. Consider this a heads up, if nothing else-this guy is bad people."

Grissom remained cautious, skeptical. "Which is why you're going to help us catch him?"

"Yes, oh yes-he needs to be stopped . . . and your unit, and Detective Brass and his fine contingent of investigators, seem to have the best shot at finally doing it."

". . . Right."

"In fact," Culpepper said, "I've already forwarded our files to Detective Brass-everything we have on the Deuce."

"That is cooperative," Grissom said. He didn't tell Culpepper that he and Brass were already on the trail.

Culpepper beamed. "Now, you want to tell me what you have?"

"Anything to cooperate," Grissom said.

He didn't want to give up anything, but Gil Grissom knew how to play the game. He gave Culpepper the basics of the Beachcomber shooting-information he was pretty sure the FBI agent already had. He left out, among other things, the videotape evidence; and said nothing about the mummy at all. When he finally finished, he looked at Culpepper's insincere grin and said, "Now what?"

"Nothing in particular," Culpepper said, rising. "Just nice to know we can work together like this."

And he gave Grissom his hand, which Grissom accepted-the agent's flesh cool, clammy-and when Culpepper had gone, Grissom sat there for a while, looking at his own palm, as if thinking of running it through the lab.

10

THESE LINKED MURDER INVESTIGATIONS REPRESENTED JUST the sort of case Jim Brass needed-not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, himself included.

Since his unceremonious return trip to Homicide, after the Holly Gribbs debacle, many of his colleagues avoided him as if he were a terminal case. Sheriff Brian Mobley spoke to Brass only when necessary. In recent months, Brass had, whenever possible, avoided Mobley, and would have ducked out fifteen minutes ago if the sheriff hadn't ordered him to come in and provide an update.

With no enthusiasm, Brass knocked on the wooden door with Mobley's name and rank inscribed in raised white letters. After losing command of the Criminalistics Bureau, Brass had been reduced to a plastic nameplate on an anonymous metal desk in the bullpen.

"Come in," came the muffled response.

Bright sunshine from the huge window behind Mobley's desk infused the office with a white light that Brass supposed was meant to give the sheriff the aura of God. Unfortunately, it seemed to be working.

Despite a well-tailored brown suit and crisp yellow tie, attire worthy of the chairman of the board of a small company, the redheaded, freckle-faced Mobley looked not so much youthful as adolescent, a boy playing cops and robbers . . . and the top law enforcement officer of a city of over one million souls.

"Have a seat, Jim."

The politeness made Brass even more uneasy, but he did as instructed. The wall next to the office door was lined with shelves of law books; on the left wall, a twenty-one-inch television-tuned to CNN, at the moment, sound low-perched atop a credenza. A computer sat on a smaller table on the sheriff's left, while his desk-smaller than the Luxor-appeared, as always, neat and clutter-free. The detective in Brass wondered if the sheriff ever worked.

Brass had been under Mobley, some years before, when the latter had been captain of Homicide. In truth, the man was probably as conscientious and hardworking as anyone; but Mobley's job was more about politics, these days, than actual law enforcement.

In 1973, the Clark County Sheriff's Department and the Las Vegas Police Department merged into one entity, putting the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department under the command of the sheriff. Now, the office more closely resembled that of a corporate CEO. Mobley was the fourth man to hold the position since the unification; rumor had it Mobley had his sights on the mayoral office.

The sheriff used a remote to switch off the television. "Well, at least CNN hasn't picked up Dingelmann's murder yet."

Brass nodded. "Local press has stayed off it-mob stuff's bad for tourism."

"You got that right-but the national press will pick up on this, and soon. Dingelmann's too high-profile for some national stringer not to connect the dots."

"I know."

"It's bad enough that the newspapers and the local TV picked up on this 'mummy' business. Now that's everywhere. Is it true it was our CSIs who dubbed the corpse that way?"

"I don't know."

"Well, the press sure loved that baloney." Sighing, the Sheriff loosened his tie. "Tell me where we're at, Jim."

The detective filled him in.

Mobley closed his eyes, bowed his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. "Do we really think the same asshole killed two people, fifteen years apart?"

"The CSIs are working to prove it now."

"And?"

"Who knows?"

Mobley shook his head, scowled. "Stay on top of this, Jim. There's a lot riding on it."

"Sir?"

"We can look like champs if we catch this killer, or chumps if this guy gets away-bottom line'll be, we can't protect our city."

"Yes, sir," Brass said.

"And let's handle the FBI."

"Sir?"

A tiny sneer curled the baby upper lip. "Take all the help they want to give . . . but if the FBI makes the arrest, they get all the glory. Now, if we make the arrest before them . . ."

"Yes, sir."

"Okay, go get him."

Brass left the office, searching the halls for Grissom, wanting to tell him about Mobley's challenge, in particular the avoidance of the FBI, which put him in rare agreement with the sheriff. Instead Brass met Warrick Brown coming down the hall in the opposite direction.

"What are you still doing here?" Brass asked.