Double Dealer

Weakly, she nodded.

He went to the desk and looked back at the old woman. He picked up piles of mail until lifting one rubber-banded stack of letters made the woman nod. Joy Petty, the return address said. Sticking the stack inside his shirt, he returned to the woman. She tried to crawl away but couldn't. Right on top of her, he fired a shot into the back of her head, then one inch below it, a second.

He had just removed the noise suppresser when a car door slammed outside and he saw a man and woman coming up the front stairs. They came to the front door and the man knocked. At first he did nothing. The man knocked again-and announced himself as the police!

Moving slightly to to his right, the killer fired through the door. Then a second shot. He moved back left, saw the woman aiming at the house and the man take off across the front yard. He fired once more at the running man, then the woman yelled-identifying them as police . . . big surprise.

He heard the man shout something from behind their black SUV. Firing through the front window now, he blew out the truck's driver's side window. An encroaching siren, told him there was no point in hanging around here waiting for them to surround him. He pulled on his hood, got to the back door, opened it quietly, then taking a deep breath, took off at a sprint across the backyard.

He thought he heard footsteps advancing behind him, but he couldn't be sure. He vaulted a neighbor's chain link fence, the top of it cutting into his hand. The sudden pain stopped him, but only for a second. Seeing a silhouette running toward him, he turned and took off across the yard jumping the front fence, and then he was gone.

After two hours, they had worked the scene thoroughly, pausing only to watch as the EMTs loaded Marge Kostichek's body onto a gurney and wheeled her out.

Grissom, at the writing table, had found two more bundles of letters from Joy Petty, which Nick bagged, saying, "This guy is starting to piss me off."

"Nobody likes to get shot at, Nick," Grissom said.

"But it's like he's always one jump ahead of us."

Catherine said, "He just reads the Sun, is all."

But a cloud drifted across Grissom's face.

Catherine said, "What?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just a feeling."

She gave him a small wry smile. "I thought you didn't believe in feelings-just evidence."

"This feeling grows out some piece of evidence," he said, "or anyway, something I already know, that I just haven't given proper weight. But I will."

O'Riley bounded in. "My buddy Tavo called. He got a videotape statement of Joy Petty saying that Marge Kostichek hired the Deuce to kill Malachy Fortunato."

Grissom and Catherine exchanged wide-eyed glances.

"Just that simple?" Nick asked.

"It's not all good news," O'Riley said. "Joy Petty's in the wind."

"What?" Grissom snapped.

O'Riley shrugged. "She asked to use the john. She wasn't a suspect, she wasn't even a witness-just a citizen cooperating of her own free will. She smelled the danger. She's gone."

"Have they checked her house yet?"

"Yes. All her clothes were gone, she even took her cat. Like she'd been ready for this day for years."

She had been, Catherine thought.

Grissom asked, sharply, "Well, are they looking for her? She's an accessory after the fact."

"Oh, yeah. I mean, I don't know what kind of priority they put on this-it's not their case. This was just a favor Tavo was doing me."

"Get your friend on the phone now, Sergeant," Grissom said. "We're heading back to home base and in half an hour, I want to be able to download that interview. We need to see this for ourselves."

"I'll try."

"Don't try. Do it."

In just under forty-five minutes, Grissom had assembled Catherine, Nick and O'Riley in his office.

On the computer screen was the image of an interrogation room. Across the table from the camera sat a fortyish woman with shoulder-length black hair, brown eyes and a steeply angled face.

Though the interrogating officer wasn't in the picture, his voice now came through the speaker. "State your name."

O'Riley whispered, "That's my buddy Tavo."

The woman on screen was already saying, "Joy Petty."

Grissom shushed O'Riley.

The off-camera Tavo asked, "Your address?"

She gave an address in Lakewood.

"You are here of your own volition without coercion?"

She nodded.

"Say yes or no, please."

"Yes, I'm sorry. Yes, I'm here of my own volition, without no coercion."

As they watched, the woman before them grew more agitated. She took a pack of cigarettes from her purse.

Tavo must have been looking at his notes, because she had it lighted before he said, "No smoking, please."

With a smirk, she stubbed the cigarette out in a black ashtray in front of her.

"You've used other names during your life, correct?"

"Yes. Joy Starr, Joy Luck, and several more other stage names. They called me Monica Leigh in the Swank layout; that's a magazine. The name I was given at birth was Monica Petty."

Without even thinking about it, she lit another cigarette and took a deep drag. Tavo said nothing. She took a second drag, blew it out through her nose and finally realized she was smoking where she shouldn't be and blotted out the second butt in the ashtray.

Half-annoyed, half-curious, she asked, "Why is there a goddamnn ashtray if we're not allowed to smoke?"

"It's just always been there," Tavo told her.

For several minutes Tavo elicited from her the story of Marge Kostichek taking in her in as a runaway, raising her like a daughter (albeit a daughter who worked in her strip club). Catherine wondered if a sexual relationship might have developed between the women, but the officer didn't ask anything along those lines.

Finally, Tavo lowered the boom. "Ms. Petty, I'm afraid I have bad news for you."

"What? What is this about, anyway? What is this really about?"

"Marge Kostichek was murdered this evening."

"No . . . no, you're just saying that to . . ."

Tavo assured her he was telling the truth. "I'm afraid it was a brutal slaying, Ms. Petty."

Her lip was trembling. "Tell me. Tell me. . . . I have a right to know."

Tavo told her.

"Ms. Petty-do you know who killed Malachy Fortunato in Las Vegas in nineteen hundred eighty-five?"

"I . . . I know what they call him."

"And what is that?"

"The Deuce. Because of those two head wounds, like Marge got."

"The Deuce is a professional killer?"

"Yes. I don't know his name, otherwise."

"Do you know who hired him?"

". . . I . . . know who hired him, yes."

"Who?"

The woman seemed fine for a moment, then she collapsed, her head dropping to the table as long, angry sobs erupted from her. Tavo's hand came into the picture, touched her arm. The gesture seemed to give her strength and she wrestled to control her emotions.

"I've . . . I'm sorry." A sob halted her, but she composed herself again and said, "I loved him, but Malachy was not a strong man. He didn't have the strength to choose between his wife or me. And neither of us would give him up, either. He had a tender touch, Malachy. But he was selfish, and weak, too-that's what led him to embezzle from the Sandmound, you know . . . the casino where he worked."

Tavo said nothing, letting her tell it in her own time, in her own way.

"I stripped at a bar called Swingers. I'd been there since the owner, Marge Kostichek, took me in when I was fifteen. Marge knew that once the mob found out Mal was embezzling they'd kill him, and anybody who had anything to do with him. So, she beat them to the punch.

"She hired this guy who did these mob hits. I don't know how she knew about him, how to contact him; I heard Swingers was a money laundry for some mob guys . . . I just heard that, you know . . . so maybe that was how. Anyway, hiring this guy cost her most of the money she'd saved over the years. The rest she gave to me along with a bus ticket to L.A."

"Excuse me, Ms. Petty-I want to remind you that I did advise you of your rights."

"I know you did. See, I didn't know Marge did it, till years later. I thought . . . I thought the mobsters had Malachy killed. And Marge told me I was in danger, too, and put me on that bus. And I went willingly. I was scared shitless, believe me."

"So . . . you stayed in touch with Marge over the years?"

"Yes-we wrote to each other regularly. She even came out to visit a few times."

"Have you been back to Las Vegas?"

"I'm not that brave."

"So how did you come to find out the truth?"

"Maybe five years later, when she visited me. I was in Reseda at the time. We spent a long evening, drinking, reminiscing . . . and she spilled her guts. I think she felt guilty about it. I think she'd been carrying it around, and she told me how about, and cried and cried and begged me to forgive her."

"Did you?"

"Sure. She did it to save me, she thought-those mobsters mighta killed me, too, and Mal's wife . . . I mean, if they thought one of us was in on it, the embezzling?"

"I see."

"Do you? End of the day, I loved her a hell of a lot more than I did that candy ass Malachy. . . . Listen, Officer-I need to use the restroom."

And that was the end of the taped interview.

O'Riley covered for his pal Tavo in L.A. "Hey, she wasn't under arrest or anything. She came in voluntarily. He let his guard down. By the time he got a female officer to check the john, and hunted down his partner, they were fifteen minutes behind her, easy."

"Plenty of time," Nick said, "for Joy to pack up and get out of Dodge . . . but why? Why did she run?"

Grissom was staring at the blank screen.

"Running is all she knows how to do," Catherine said, with an open-handed gesture. "That's what she's done her whole life. It started at fifteen when she ran from her parents, and she's never stopped since."

"And Marge Kostichek was just trying to help the poor girl," Nick said, bleakly.

"You don't win Mother of the Year," Grissom said, "by hiring a hitman to commit first-degree murder."

15

ABOUT THE TIME O'RILEY AND NICK FOUND MARGE Kostichek's body, Warrick was hunkered over a computer monitor in the layout room at work. His eyes burned and his temples throbbed and his neck muscles ached. A while back Sara had stopped by to tell him about the bewildering background search on Barry Hyde's personal history, and Warrick had told her that Hyde's business life was proving equally messy and mysterious.

"No matter what I learn," he'd said to her, " something else suggests the opposite."

"I know the feeling," she'd said.

Now, an hour later at least, things were messier and more mysterious. Although the business spent money buying the latest video releases, A-to-Z did little advertising and had the worst rental rates around. Patrick the pot-smoking manager had copped to the store's light traffic, and yet every month Hyde paid what Warrick considered an exorbitant rent in addition to buying more and more movies. Where did the money come from?

He turned away from the monitor's glow, rubbing his eyes, wondering where he would search next.

That was when Brass stumbled in, exhausted and a little disheveled, looking for Grissom.

"Not sure where he is," Warrick said. "One minute he was here, then O'Riley called from Kostichek's house."

"What was it?"

"Frankly, sounded like your ballpark-I think Marge got sent to that big strip club in the sky."

Brass's well-pleated face managed to tighten with alarm. "You don't think it's the . . ."

"Deuce if I know," Warrick said.

Brass slipped into a chair next to Warrick, slumping. "The more we work on this, the more bizarre it gets."

With a slow nod, Warrick said, "Tell me about it. It's like that damn video store-hardly any business, you wouldn't think much cash flow, and yet Hyde seems to have plenty of dough."

The cop grunted a humorless laugh. "What do you make of Hyde traveling all the time?"

"If he's the Deuce, maybe he's got gigs all around this great land of ours."

Brass shrugged. "So we just trace where he went. And see who got murdered, or disappeared, there."

"I'm all over that-for what good it's doing. No record of Barry Thomas Hyde on any passenger manifest for any airline . . . ever."

"Some people hate to fly. Maybe he drives."

Warrick shook his head. "Last month, when he was traveling, his car was in a Henderson garage getting serviced."

"What about ren-"

"No rental records. And he doesn't have a second car-I mean, he's unmarried, no record of a divorce or kids, either."

"What are you telling me?"

"That the guy leaves town regularly. He doesn't fly, drive his own car to get there, or even rent a car."

"Bus? Train?"

"No records there, either. For a guy who gets around, there's no sign he ever left home."

Brass smirked. "Just that calendar and that pothead's word."

"Why would Hyde tell his video store staff he was gonna be out of town, if he wasn't?"

"Well, then he's got another identity."

"Our maildrop guy, Peter Randall, maybe? That's the only thing that makes sense-particularly if he's still taking assignments as the Deuce, despite the lack of bodies that've turned up in the past few years."

Brass stared into nothing; then he shook his head, as if to clear the cobwebs, and turned to Warrick and asked, "What about hotels?"

"Well, that's going to take forever to check in detail, you know, to try to see if he was registered anywhere . . . I mean, he never told Patrick where he was off to . . . but I can tell you this: Hyde never charged a hotel or motel room to any one of his three credit cards, and never wrote 'em a check either."

Brass sighed heavily-then he rose, stretched; bones popped. "Something very wrong here-very wrong . . . When Grissom gets back, have him page me."

"You got it."

Brass walked out of the office, got about four feet, and his cell phone rang. The conversation was a short one, Brass sticking his head back inside the layout room moments later, his expression suddenly alert.

"C'mon," Brass said, waving impatiently. "You're with me."

"All right," Warrick said, and in the corridor, falling in next to Brass, he asked, "What's up?"

Brass wore a foul expression. "Barry Hyde's number, I hope."

Sara awoke with a start. She had fallen asleep at her computer and evidently no one had noticed. She sat up, made a face then rolled her neck and felt the tight stiffness that came when she slept wrong. Reaching back, she kneaded her neck muscles, applying more and more pressure as she went, but the pain showed little sign of dissipating. Standing up, her legs wobbly, she got her balance and went out into the hall to the water fountain. Then she wandered from room to room looking for the rest of the crew, but found no one.

At least not until she stepped into the DNA lab, where she discovered skinny, spiky-haired Greg Sanders, on the phone, a huge grin going, his eyes wide.

"You're going to do what?" he asked. "You . . . you're such a bad girl. . . ."

Clearing her throat, Sara smiled and, when he spun to face her, gave him a little wave.

The grin turned upside down, as he said, "Um, we'll continue this, later. I've got to go." He hung up without further comment.

"Serious, meaningful relationship?" she asked.

"Hey, it's not as kinky as you think."

"No, Greg, I'm pretty sure it is. Where is everybody?"

He shrugged. "Catherine and Nick are at a murder scene. I think Grissom went to join the party, and Warrick left with Brass, like, I dunno, ten minutes ago."

She felt very awake, suddenly. "Murder scene?"

He held up his hands. "I don't know the details."

She sat down on an empty stool. "What do you know?"

On his wheeled chair, he rolled over to another work station, saying, "I know the cigarette butt Catherine brought in, from the mummy site, is too decomposed, and too old, to give us any workable DNA after all that time."

"Okay. That's the bad news part-how about some good news?"

"If you insist. How about that other cigarette butt? The one they brought in from Evidence-it was old, too, but somebody bagged it years ago."

"What about it?"

"It doesn't match the mummy's blood . . . or the wife's DNA, either." Warming to the topic, Sanders grinned at her in his cheerful fashion and pulled a sheet of paper out of a folder. "Take a peek."

She rolled on her stool over next to him. "DNA test results," she said, reading, pleased. "So, the cigarette butt came from the killer?"

"Hey, I just work here. I don't know whose DNA it is-it just isn't the wife's or the mummy's."

"Does Grissom know about this? Anybody?"

"No." Sanders shook his head. "I haven't had a chance to tell them."

"I know," she said. "You were busy-had phone calls to make."

"Listen, I get break time like anybody-"

She leaned in and smiled her sweetest smile. "Greg-I'm just teasing you. From what I heard, sounded like you enjoy it. . . . Anyway, I'll pass the news along. You're going to be popular."

He shrugged and smiled. "Good. I like being popular."

"So I gathered."

And she left the lab.

Warrick sat in the darkened car next to Brass. The unmarked Taurus was parked at the intersection of Fresh Pond Court and Dockery Place, with a good view of Hyde's house and its putting-green front yard. The car windows were down, the evening nicely cool, the night a dark one, not much moon. Patrol cars were parked on Eastern Avenue, South Pecos Road and Canarsy Court , observing the sides and back of the house, to make sure Hyde didn't sneak in on foot.

The Hyde residence stood dark and silent, a ranch-style tomb. The neighbors' houses showed signs of normal life, the faint blue glow of televisions shining through wispy curtains in darkened rooms; others were well-lit with people occasionally crossing in front of windows, somewhere a stereo played too loud, and a couple of houses away from Hyde's, somebody had his garage door open, fine-tuning the engine of a Kawasaki motorcycle. At this hour the guy was pushing it-it was almost ten P.M.

"You think Hyde's really the Deuce?" Warrick asked.

Brass shrugged.

"If he is, you think he'd come back here, right after murdering somebody?"

Within the dark interior of the car, the detective gave Warrick a long appraising look. "You know, Brown, sometimes it's better not to think so much. Just wait for it and react. If he comes, he comes. Don't try to out-think these mutts. Leave it to them and they'll do it. That's when we pick them up."

Warrick knew Brass was right; but it frustrated him.

They sat in silence for a long time; how long, Warrick didn't know-he thought he might even have dozed off a couple of times. Stakeout work was boring, even when there was an undercurrent of danger, and it made Warrick glad he wasn't a cop. The neighbor with the motorcycle either got tired or somebody called to complain, because he stopped working on the machine and shut his garage door. One by one the lights in the windows around the court went out.

"Maybe he's made us," Warrick said, "or one of the squads."

Brass shrugged. "Wouldn't surprise me. He didn't stay alive in that business this long being careless. I doubt if he spotted us, though-there hasn't been a car on this street since we got here."

Just then a vehicle turned toward them off South Pecos Road. Its headlights practically blinded them and they slid down in their seats. Then the vehicle-a big black SUV-pulled to a stop almost even with them.

"Grissom," Brass said, sounding a little peeved.

The black Tahoe idled quietly next to them and Grissom rolled down his window. "So?"

"Nothing," Brass said. "House has been dark and quiet since we got here."

"All right. When you get back, Jim, you need to see an interview the LAPD sent over-Joy Petty confirming Marge Kostichek hired the Deuce."

Brass blew out air. "Jesus-so she was an old loose end getting newly tied off."

Grissom didn't respond to that, saying, "I'm going back to the lab. Warrick . . ."

Brass shushed him and pointed to Hyde's house where a light had just come on in the living room. Grissom eased the Tahoe over to the far curb, parked it and returned to the Taurus on foot, quietly slipping into the backseat.

The walkie seemed to jump into Brass's hand. "Light just came on in the house."

The reports came back quickly. No one had seen anything.

"Damnit," Brass said. He sighed. "All right-I'm going to go take a peek in the window. You two stay here."

"No way, Jim," Grissom said. "We're not going to let you go up there alone."

"Let's not completely blow our cover," Brass said. "It could just be a timer."

"And," Warrick added, "Hyde might be a professional killer who has already done one murder tonight, and forty-some others over the years-that we know about. You really want to go up there alone?"

Brass scowled at Warrick. "Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?"

Letting out a long tired sigh, Warrick said, "No, I just asked a question. Do you really want to go up there alone?"

Brass thought about it; finally he said, "All right-one of you."

Warrick opened the door and jumped out, beating Grissom to the punch. The pair made their way cautiously up the street, moving through yards and trying to avoid the circle of light thrown off by the only street light, back on the corner. Warrick stayed behind the much shorter Brass, keeping low. At the edge of Hyde's yard they ducked in next to the garage.

"You only go as far as that end of the garage," Brass whispered, pointing.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going around the back, and come up the other side, and try to see in the window."

Warrick nodded. "I'll follow you to the back of the garage. When you go up the far side, I'll move up to the front."

"Okay," Brass said, and pulled his revolver from his hip holster. He eased to the back of the garage and Warrick, his own pistol in hand, crept along in Brass's shadow. At the corner, in darkness out of the range of the street light, the detective gave Warrick a little wave and edged around the corner. Taking position, Warrick watched as Brass moved across the huge backyard. The detective was halfway across when a high-mounted motion light came on, putting Brass in the spotlight. . . .

Warrick dipped into shooter's stance, pistol leveled at the back door, centered above a wide octagonal deck. Initially, Brass froze; but the deer-in-headlights moment passed, and he dove to his right, rolled, and came up running toward the far side of the house, in darkness again.

Ready to shoot, Warrick searched for a target, finding none, and not unhappy about it. Brass, now on the far side of the house, would be making his way toward the front and expecting Warrick to be there to cover him.

Spinning, Warrick sprinted back to the front. He turned and, at the garage door, stayed close as he slithered to the far end. Peeking around the corner, Warrick saw nothing and wondered if something had happened to Brass. Fighting panic, he saw Brass's face slide out from behind a shrub at the corner of the house. Warrick's trip-hammer heartbeat slowed only slightly, as he watched the detective trying to see inside.

The CSI watched intently, as Brass crawled beneath the window, stopping to peer over the edge of the frame. Just when he thought they were going to pull this off without a hitch, Warrick felt a hand settle on his shoulder. He jumped and turned, bringing his pistol up as he went.

Grissom just looked at him. "Damnit, Gris," Warrick half-whispered, keeping his voice down at least, as the adrenaline spiked through his system. Turning back, he realized he couldn't see Brass now, and-panic rising again-wondered where the detective had gone. As he prepared to stick his head around the corner, Brass came the other way, suddenly appearing three inches in front of him, and Warrick jumped again. Damn!

"Hyde's not home," Brass said, his voice low, but no longer a whisper.

"Not home," Warrick echoed numbly-but as much as he wanted this son of a bitch, he couldn't help feeling relieved.

Brass was saying, "Those lights gotta be on a timer. No sign of him in the living room, and the lights are still off in the rest of the house."

Spinning back to Grissom, Warrick asked, "And just what the hell were you doing?"

"Neighbors called in a prowler," he said. " Henderson PD is coming-silent response."

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than three police cars rolled into the court, cherrytops making the night psychedelic, spotlights trained on the three of them. No sirens, though-that might disturb the neighborhood.

Officers piled out, using their doors for cover as they aimed their pistols at Brass and Warrick.

"Drop your guns," one of them ordered, and then another one or two yelled pretty much the same thing.

Carefully kneeling, Warrick and Brass set their guns on the ground in front of them.

"Is our cover blown yet?" Grissom asked.

As Brass explained the situation to the Henderson Police Department, Warrick and Grissom stood staring at the big, expensive and apparently very empty house.

"He's making us look like fools," Warrick said.

Grissom didn't reply immediately; but then he said, "When we're done here, we'll swing by the video store."

"He could be there."

"Yes he could."

Brass returned, shaking his head. "They're a little pissed."

Warrick said, "I guess we coulda given 'em a heads up."

"It's not ideal interdepartmental relations," Brass admitted. He looked at the disgruntled uniforms, who were milling out by their black-and-whites, cherrytops shut off. "They also informed me that Barry Hyde has been a model citizen since moving to Henderson . . . and if in the future we want to do some police work in their fair city, they would like us first to ask their permission."

"They said that?" Grissom asked.

"I'm paraphrasing, but the message was the same. So-let's go home."

Warrick said, "Gris wants to drop by A-to-Z Video on the way back."

"Hell no," Brass said.

"Maybe I want to rent a movie," Grissom said.

Brass seemed to struggle for words. Finally he managed, "You know, Warrick, after your boss finishes this case, it's possible you and I are both going to be looking for work."

"Maybe they could use us in Henderson," Warrick suggested. "Looks like a nice town to work in. But till then, what do you say we go scope out the vids?"

Brass shook his head again. "Might as well. It'll give me something to look at while I'm on suspension."

16

ABOUT THE TIME NIGHT SHIFT ACTUALLY STARTED-AFTER SHE had already put in over four hours that included getting shot at and working a particularly unpleasant crime scene-Catherine Willows nonetheless exuded vitality as she made a bee-line for the DNA lab. From behind her, Sara's voice called out: "Hey, wait up!"

She slowed, turning to see Sara hustle up, a report in hand. "If you're headed for DNA, I may have something for you."

As they walked, Sara handed her the report, saying, "I told Greg I'd give this to you. It's the DNA results from your Fortunato evidence."

Catherine took it, but asked, "What's the news?"

"Blood was the mummy's. Cigarette taken from the Fortunato backyard sixteen years ago contains DNA that doesn't match either the late husband or his living wife."

Catherine smiled wickedly. "Could be the Deuce's."

Sara flashed her cute gap-toothed grin. "Could be. But why are we still headed to the lab?"

" 'Cause this isn't what I was going there for."

Quickly Catherine filled Sara in, slightly out of order: telling her Marge Kostichek had been murdered, apparently by the Deuce, then about the tight scrape she and Nick had been in. And finally she brought Sara up to speed on Joy Petty and the Kostichek woman hiring the murder of the mummy.

Sara, clipping along beside her, said, "And here I thought sure Fortunato was a mob hit."

"We all did," Catherine said, with a sour smirk. "Grissom told us not to assume anything, yet we all bit. Maybe that's why this woman is dead now."

"And I take it you've already dropped off the Kostichek crime scene evidence to Greg. . . ."

"Yes, and maybe we'll match up that ancient cigarette DNA-when I chased the son of a bitch tonight, he cut himself on a chain link fence."

Sara, mimicking the milk ad, asked, "Got blood?"

"Oh yeah," Catherine said, and strode into the lab, Sara right behind her.

Sanders almost jumped off his stool. "God! Don't you guys ever knock?"

Catherine leaned on his counter. "That murder crime scene stuff I dropped off? You said you'd get to it ASAP."

"And I will."

She just looked at him. Then she said, "Maybe it's time to define 'ASAP.' "

The normally cheerful lab rat scowled at the two women. "Listen, I'm so far behind it'll be, like, Monday before I can get to it. I got overload from Days to deal with-day shift has, like, two murders, a rape and-"

"Days?" Catherine asked. "You're giving priority to dayshift?"

His brow lifted and half his mouth smirked. "You ever had Conrad Ecklie on your ass?"

"I'm not interested in your personal life, Greg."

He lowered himself over a microscope. "I'll laugh next week, when I have the time."

Leaning near the door, Sara said, "Speaking of time, Cath-while you're waiting for that DNA evidence, we could check the phone records around here . . . for personal calls."

Greg glanced up.

"You know," Sara continued, with a shrug, "as responsible public servants, we need to make sure the taxpayers are being well-served."

Sanders stroked his chin as if a beard were covering his baby face. "For two such dedicated public servants, I might be able to squeeze it in."

"Thanks, Greg-you're the best."

The Taurus and Tahoe pulled into the parking lot and glided side by side into stalls in front of the video store. Warrick climbed down from the driver's seat of the Tahoe, and Brass got out of the Taurus, where Grissom had ridden in the front passenger seat. The CSI supervisor-after taking a long, deep breath, letting it out the same way-followed, joining the two men on the sidewalk.

The normally cool Warrick seemed just a little nervous to Grissom; the lanky man was bobbing on his feet, as he looked in the storefront window and said, "The cashier tonight must be Sapphire-that means the assistant manager on duty is Ronnie. These people have never seen us before, Gris-how do you want to play it?"

It only took Grissom a moment to decide. "Jim and I'll head straight to the back room-you stay out front and keep an eye on the cashier."

A nod. "You got it."

"Gil," Brass said, his face creased with worry, "I've got to tell you, I think this is the wrong play. There's something going on here that we don't understand, yet. You really think sticking our hand into a blind hole makes sense? We could pull out a bloody stump."

"Hyde has to be somewhere," Grissom said. "He's not at his residence-this is his business. What else do you suggest?"

Without waiting for an answer, Grissom pushed open the glass door and went inside.

"May I help you, sir?" a cheerful voice asked from the cashier's island.

Moving into the brightly illuminated world of shelved videos and movie posters, Grissom said, "Just looking," and kept moving toward the back of the store. He felt Brass behind him, maybe two steps.

Warrick strolled in a few seconds behind them, and walked straight to the cashier.

"Hi," he said in a loud voice. "How are you?"

"Fine."

"Have you got the director's cut of Manhunter?"

As Warrick and the cashier chatted, Brass said to Grissom, "You're the evidence guy, for Christ's sake! What can we do here that will hold up in court?"

Still ignoring his colleague, Grissom pushed open the swinging door, despite the PRIVATE sign tacked to it, and almost immediately a figure from inside blocked the way: a kid not any older than the last one they'd met here.

"Hey! Can't you read?"

As the kid pointed to the PRIVATE sign, Grissom took a step back and appraised the youth, who wore a blue polo shirt with A-to-Z stitched over the breast, a pudgy kid with dirt-brown hair and dirt-brown eyes set deep inside a pale face.

"You can't come back here!"

The kid said this loudly-too loudly, as if it were for someone's benefit other than Grissom and Brass.

Grissom leaned in, almost nose to nose with the kid. "We're looking for your boss-Barry Hyde."

"Uh, uh . . ."

From inside the office, a voice called, "I'm Barry Hyde! . . . Let the gentlemen in, Ronnie."

Shaken, Ronnie stepped aside, and Grissom stepped into the small office, Brass following glumly.

Getting up from a desk at the right, where a security monitor revealed four angles of the store (including Warrick and the cashier talking), the man rose to a slim six-foot-one or so. That thin build was deceptively muscular, however. The man-who wore no name tag-was in a black polo shirt and black jeans-wardrobe, Grissom noted, not far removed from his own. He was in his fifties, but youthfully so.

And the man's right hand was wrapped in a large gauze bandage.

"I'm Gil Grissom from-"

"Do you always barge into private places unannounced, Mr. Grissom?" Hyde asked, superficially pleasant, but with an edge.

"From the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau," Grissom finished. "This is Captain Brass. We'd like to ask you a few questions."

"We should have knocked," Brass mumbled. "Sorry."

"Apology noted," Hyde said. "And I always like to cooperate with law enforcement, but I'm sure you'll understand if I ask see to your credentials."

"Certainly," Brass said, and they complied with the request.

Hyde studied Brass's badge and Grissom's picture ID a few beats longer than necessary, Grissom thought; a smirk lurked at the corner of Hyde's mouth. This man was not afraid of them, or thrown by their presence: he seemed, if anything, amused!

Handing than credentials back, Hyde gave them a curt nod. "Fine, gentlemen. Now. What may I do for you? And let me assure you that any adult material we rent is clearly within community standards."

Grissom smiled, just a little. "Mr. Hyde, I notice you're wearing a bandage on your right hand-it looks fresh. Would you mind telling us how you injured yourself?"

The mouth smirked, but the forehead tensed. "Is there a . . . context to these questions?"

Brass said, "Could you please just answer."

Hyde's smirk evolved into a smile consisting of small even teeth-something vaguely animal-like about them. He held up the hand in front of him, the bandage like a badge of honor. "Shelving units. Ronnie . . . that's the young man you were intimidating just now . . . Ronnie and I were rearranging some shelves and one of them cut my hand."

"Could I take a look at the injury?"

"Why, are you a doctor?"

"Well, yes . . . in a way."

"I'm going to say no," Hyde said, firm but not unfriendly. "I only just now got the bleeding stopped, and got it properly bandaged. I'm not going to undress the wound so you can look at it, for some unspoken reason. Out of the question, gentlemen."

Grissom fought the irritation rising in him. It must have shown, because Brass jumped in with his own line of questioning. "Mr. Hyde, can you tell us where you were, earlier this evening?"

"I could, but you're going to have to be frank with me, gentlemen, if you want my cooperation."

Grissom laid it out: "This is a murder investigation."

That might have given the average person pause, but Hyde snapped right back: "And that gives you the right to be rude?"

Grissom said nothing.

"Please, Mr. Hyde," Brass said, reasonably, "tell us where you were earlier this evening."

"Any particular time?"

Brass shrugged. "Let's say since five."

"A.M. or P.M.?" Hyde asked, his eyes on Grissom, that tiny half-smirk tugging at his cheek.

"Make it P.M.," Brass said, and took a small notebook from his pocket.

"All right." Now Hyde shrugged. "I've been here at the store."

"Since five?"

"Earlier than that even," said Hyde. "Since around four."

Their earlier visit to A-to-Z had been mid-afternoon; had they just missed their man?

"Witnesses to that effect?" Brass asked casually.

"Ronnie and Sapphire. They both came in at four today."

"Isn't that early?" Grissom asked. "I mean, you open at ten, and go to midnight. I thought the shifts would be divided in half."

A smile split the pockmarked face, a stab at pretended cordiality. "That would make sense, wouldn't it? But today Patrick and Sue had plans-they're something of an item . . . not ideal, a workplace romance, but it happens, and I just hate to be a hard-ass boss."

Pothead Patrick had indeed said good things about their boss; but Grissom didn't mention the other assistant manager-Warrick had negotiated the kid's silence, earlier. Or was there a surveillance tape that Hyde had looked at? Had the killer been reviewing security tapes, too?

Hyde was saying, "The lovebirds left an hour early, and Sapphire and Ronnie came in to cover."

Brass asked, "Did your other two employees see you, today?"

Hyde shook his head. "No, they left right at four, and I wandered in a few minutes after."

"Did you know about their plans?"

"They had permission. Like I said, I try to be a good boss to these kids."

Grissom found himself fascinated by this specimen: if Hyde was the Deuce, Grissom was looking at a classic sociopath. If they could bust this guy, and convict him, he would make a great subject for one of Grissom's lectures.

Brass was asking the guy, "Did you go out to eat or anything? Run errands maybe?"

"No, it's just as I've told you." His tone was patronizing, as if Brass were a child.

Hyde continued: "I was here all evening. Ask my kids, they'll tell you. Oh, Ronnie did go out and get Italian-pizza for them, salad for me. I believe it was about nine o'clock. The three of us ate." An eyebrow arched. "The pizza box, and the little styrofoam salad box, are in the Dumpster out back . . . if you would care for further confirmation."

Grissom had rarely encountered this degree of smugness in a murder suspect before.

Brass asked, "Where did Ronnie go to get this Italian?"

"Godfather's . . . it's a bit of a drive, but that's Ronnie's favorite pizza."

Brass wrote that down, dutifully.

Grissom asked, "You didn't eat any pizza?"

"No. It was sausage and pepperoni-I'm a vegetarian."

"Oh. Health reasons, Mr. Hyde, or moral issues?"

"Both. I try to stay fit . . . and of course I take a stand against wanton slaughter."

Grissom admired Hyde's ability to say that with a straight face. "What's your stand on dairy items?"

"What does that have to do with a murder investigation?"

Grissom shrugged. "I'm just wondering. I have an interest in nutrition. Mind humoring me?"

"Not at all-I'm lactose-intolerant. No cheese on my salad-just good crisp healthy veggies. But I do like some sting in my dressing."

Grissom said, "Thank you."

Brass gave Grissom a sideways you're-as-nuts-as-this-guy-is look, and returned to his questioning. "When was the first time you visited Las Vegas, Mr. Hyde? Prior to moving here, I mean."

Hyde considered that. "Six years ago, I believe-just a month or so before I moved here. I fell in love with the place-was here for a video store owners convention-and moved out here."

"Never before that?"

"Never. I don't have any particular interest in gambling. It was the climate-the beauty of the desert sunsets. That sort of thing."

"All right," Brass said, making a note. "Do you know a woman named Marge Kostichek?"

No hesitation. "No-should I?"

"How about a Philip Dingelmann?"

"No."

"Malachy Fortunato?"

"No . . . and I have to say, I'm growing weary of this game. Who are these people, and why would you think that I'd know them?"

Brass smiled-as enigmatic as a Sphinx. "Why, they're our murder victims, Mr. Hyde."

The smirk lost its sarcasm; the eyes hardened. "And you are suggesting I knew these people?"

Brass said, "We're asking."

Hyde seemed to get irritated, now; but Grissom wondered if it was just another chess move, more cat and mouse.

"You think I've killed these people, don't you? What preposterous, presumptuous . . . this interview is over, gentlemen."

"All right," Brass said.

But Hyde went on: "I've tried to assist you, cooperate with you despite your rudeness, and now you repay my good citizenship by accusing me of murder."

Good citizenship? Grissom thought.

"And within the walls of my own establishment, no less." He went to the door, pushed it open, and waited for them to leave.

Brass began to move, but Grissom gently held him back, by the arm. To Hyde, Grissom said, "Talking here at your . . . establishment . . . might be more comfortable for you."

"Than what? The police station?"

Neither man said a word.

Releasing the door, Hyde returned to his desk, sat, and said, "All right-continue your interview." He gestured to the telephone nearby. "But if you accuse me of murder, if you even imply it, I'll end this interview, phone my attorney and file charges for harassment."

Grissom noted that the security cam system did not include the office or back room.

"You mentioned gambling, Mr. Hyde," Brass said. "So you don't gamble?"

"I said I had no great interest in it. I live at the doorstep of the gambling capital of the United States, if not the free world. Of course I've tried my luck from time to time."

"Ever at the Beachcomber?"

Grissom could sense the wheels turning behind the controlled if smug facade; but Hyde gave up nothing.

He said, "I've been there. I've been to most of the casinos on and off the Strip, for dining and entertainment, if not always gaming. I've lived here for over five years."

"We'll get to that," Brass said. "You ever use the ATM machine at the Beachcomber?"

Grissom thought he saw Hyde give the slightest flinch. It happened so fast he couldn't be sure. . . .

Hyde said, "I don't believe so."

"But you're not sure?"

"No, uh, yes, I'm sure."

That was the closest to flustered Hyde had been, so far.

Brass said, "There's a security tape that shows you using the ATM machine there almost seven weeks ago."

A disbelieving smile twisted the thin lips. "Shows me? I hardly think so. . . ." This was almost an admission of his avoidance of the casino security cameras, and Hyde quickly amplified: "I've never used my ATM card. . . ."

After his voice trailed off, Hyde seemed lost in thought.

"What?" Grissom asked.

Nodding, Hyde said, "You must have seen the man who stole it."

Brass cocked his head as if his hearing were poor. "How is that?"

"On the tape. The casino security tape-you must have seen the individual who stole my ATM card."

Brass sighed. "You're telling us someone stole your ATM card?"

Hyde nodded. "Yes, around the first of May."

"And when did you report the theft?"

"Just now, I'm afraid," Hyde said, with what seemed an embarrassed shake of his head. "Right after the card was stolen, I got called out of town on business and then I simply forgot about it."

Grissom said, "You forgot your ATM card was stolen?"

Brass didn't wait for a response, asking, "How was it stolen?"

"I don't really know."

Grissom felt the irritation rising again; the man's contempt for them was incredible. "You don't know," he said.

Hyde shrugged. "One day I went to use it . . . in my wallet . . . and it was just gone."

"Then you lost it," Brass said, apparently trying not to lose it himself. "Mr. Hyde, that's not the same thing as having it stolen."

Hyde looked at them with undisguised disdain. "I never found it, and the bank never called to say that they had it. So it must have been stolen. . . . I probably left it in a machine when I used it, and someone else simply took it."

Now it was Grissom's turn to feel smug. "How do you suppose this guy got your PIN then?"

Hyde's smile managed to turn even more condescending. "The number was written on the back of the card, at the end of the signature box. I'm afraid I have a terrible memory."

Brass said, "You've been doing pretty well with it tonight."

"Numbers, names, that sort of thing, I'm hopeless. So I just wrote the PIN on the card. You know, to this day, I can't remember my social security number."

Grissom had to wonder if that was because he'd had more than one.

"Then you forgot to report the card's loss," Brass said.

"Yes-precisely. What a fool." Hyde put his hands behind his neck, elbows winged out, as he leaned back, clearly enjoying himself.

Brass flipped a notebook page. "Let's talk about before you moved here, five years ago."

"Let's."

"Where did you live before you moved to Henderson?"

"So many places."

"For instance."

"Coral Gables, Florida . . . Rochester, Minnesota . . . Moscow, Idaho-I even lived in Angola, Indiana, once upon a time."

"Let's talk about Idaho-when did you live there?"

"During college. More years ago than I would like to admit."

Grissom figured there was a lot this guy wouldn't like to admit.

Brass was asking, "So, you went to the University of Idaho?"

Hyde nodded. "Graduated with a degree in English." He removed his hands from behind his head and gestured to the posters. "For all the good it's done me."

"You seem to have done all right for yourself," Brass commented.

" 'Education,' " Grissom said, " 'is an admirable thing.' "

" 'But it is well,' " Hyde said, picking up where the criminalist left off, " 'to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.' "

"Oscar Wilde," Grissom said, trading a tiny smile with Hyde.

"Speaking of education," Brass said, unimpressed, "can you explain why the University of Idaho has never heard of Barry Hyde?"

He seemed surprised. "No, I can't. I suppose it's possible they've lost my transcript. It has, after all, been quite a few years . . . and a lot of these institutions, when they switched over to computerized systems, well . . . I must have gotten lost in the technological shuffle."

Brass asked, "Is there anyone at the university you knew back then we could talk to now?"

"You must be kidding. My old college chums?"

"Yeah-let's start with 'chums.' "

"I have no idea. I haven't been back since I graduated. You might find this hard to believe, but I was painfully shy and kept to myself."

"And instructors?"

Hyde mulled that over momentarily. "I don't know if they are still there, but Christopher Groves and Allen Bridges in the English department might remember me."

Though not one to make assumptions, Grissom felt sure these were the names of two deceased faculty members.

Brass, jotting the names on his pad, glanced at Grissom. "You got anything else, Gil?"

"Couple questions," he said, lightly. "Were you in the service, Mr. Hyde?"

"The United States Army, Mr. Grissom-why?"

"I was wondering where you were stationed." Not missing a beat, Hyde said, "I received basic training at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, advanced training in communications at Fort Hood, Texas, and then spent nine months at Ansbach, Germany."

"It's odd," Grissom said, "that your doctor's report says that you've never been overseas."

Hyde's eyes narrowed. "Do you make a habit out of invading the privacy of upstanding citizens, Mr. Grissom?"

"Not upstanding citizens, no."

A sneer replaced the smirk. "Well, in that case, you must have stumbled across the records of a different Barry Hyde." He glanced at his watch-a Rolex-and said, "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me-while talking with you has been more interesting than I could ever have hoped, it's time to close . . . this conversation, and my store."

He rose, held open the door for them and they went out into the store, where he wordlessly led them to the front door-Warrick was gone, the cashier closing out the register. This door Hyde held open for them, also, nodding, smiling.

Grissom turned to him. "See you soon, Mr. Hyde."

Hyde laughed-once; there was something private about it. "I doubt that very much, Mr. Grissom." He went back inside and locked the door. They watched as he took the cash drawer from Sapphire and retired to the back of the store.

"What did he mean?" Brass asked. "We got a flight risk here?"

"Maybe."

"Cocky son of a bitch."

They found Warrick sitting behind the wheel of the Tahoe. "I got chased out," he said. "Any luck?"

"He was less than forthcoming," Grissom said.

Brass snorted. "That's being generous. What did you learn, Brown?"

"Once you were in back, I showed my ID to Sapphire and Ronnie. They were pretty cooperative-both said Hyde's been here all night, since just after four. Of course when Ronnie went out for pizza, around nine-that left Hyde in the back office, and Sapphire up in the cashier's slot, a post she couldn't leave. They ate carry-out pizza when Ronnie got back, and that's about it."

"Actually," Grissom said, "Hyde ate salad. No cheese, just veggies . . . Which may break this case wide open."

"Huh?" Brass said, blinking.

Getting it, Warrick was grinning. "We'd be shit out of luck, if Hyde was in on that pepperoni pizza."

Brass was lost. "What are you guys talking about?"

Warrick cackled and said, "No animal DNA in salad."

"Meet you at the Dumpster," Grissom said to Warrick, and headed to the back of the building.

17

IN THE LAYOUT ROOM, GRISSOM HAD ARRAYED VARIOUS crime scene photos-of the mummy case, at left, and the Dingelmann shooting, at right-on two large adjacent bulletin boards. He had sent Nick to round everybody up, and Catherine-sipping coffee and eating a vending-machine Danish-was at one of the tables. Nick was already back, sitting next to her, sipping a Diet Coke. Along the periphery, blank computer monitor screens stared at them accusingly-as if it was time to put these cases to bed.

Grissom agreed.

Warrick stumbled in, a coffee in one hand, his other rubbing his face; then the hand dropped away and a tired and puffy set of features revealed themselves, including bloodshot, obviously bleary eyes. "So, boss-what's up?"

Looking equally exhausted, Sara tumbled in on Warrick's heels. She carried a pint of orange juice and half a bagel with cream cheese.

Grissom filled everybody in on anything they might have missed, and Nick had the first question.

Nick said, "Okay, Marge Kostichek hires the Deuce to remove Malachy Fortunato, for reasons that are clear, by now, even to those among us who tend to lag behind. . . ."

"Ease up on yourself, Nick," Sara said.

Nick grinned at her, but the grin was gone by the time he posed the rest of his question to Grissom: "But why kill the lawyer-Dingelmann?"

"Because," Grissom said, "Hyde recognized him."

"Pardon?" Nick said.

"If you study the casino tape, the body language is unmistakable-Dingelmann recognizes the man at the poker machine . . . and the man at the poker machine recognizes him."

"Not a contract hit, you're saying," Catherine said. "Something more spontaneous."

"No, no," Nick said, shaking his head, grinning in disagreement, "silenced automatic, two shots in the back of the head? The Deuce is a hired assassin. . . . He kills for money."

"That's one reason he kills," Grissom said, patient. "But why did he murder Marge Kostichek?"

Sara shrugged. "Every cornered animal protects itself."

"Exactly," Grissom said, pointing a finger at her. "Put the pieces together, boys and girls. We have a hired killer with a very distinct signature."

Nods all around.

Grissom continued: "A signature that hasn't been seen for over five years."

"Not," Warrick said, "since he moved to Henderson."

"So he is retired," Sara said.

Nick was shaking his head again. "But what about the traveling?"

"For now, never mind that," Grissom said. "Trips or not, five years ago he came here to make a new life-to live under a new name. The contrived background Warrick and Sara uncovered confirms that."

"And Philip Dingelmann," Catherine said, "was a face out of his old life . . . the mob connections he's turned his back on, for whatever reason."

Grissom smiled. "That's a big 'bingo.' For five years, Hyde's been living quietly in Henderson, running his video store, at an apparent loss, and his only recreation, that we know of anyway, is to come in, twice a week, and gamble a little."

"At the Beachcomber," Warrick said. "At off times. So nobody from his past life might recognize him."

"Right," Grissom said, pleased.

"That's crazy," Nick said, not at all on board. "Even with its family-values facelift, Vegas still has mob roots-plus people from all over the country come here, vacationing. Why would somebody who's tucked himself out of the way, in Henderson, Nevada, come to Sin City twice a week?"

"He can't help himself, man," Warrick said. "He's an adrenaline junkie. All those years doing what he did? Couple days a week, he gets a little taste, gets that buzz that lets him survive in the straight world. Gambling does that for some people."

Grissom said, "It's no accident that more wanted felons are arrested every year at McCarren than at any other airport in the country."

Warrick nodded. "Even in this Disneyland-style Vegas, it's still the place where you can find the biggest rush in the shortest amount of time."

"So," Catherine said, almost but not quite buying it, "the mob lawyer just happened to walk into the casino where Hyde was gambling?"

Grissom pointed to a photo of the dead lawyer in the Beachcomber hallway. "Dingelmann was a registered guest at the hotel, yes. Catching some R and R before an upcoming big trial."

"Coincidence?" Sara asked, almost teasingly.

"Circumstance," Grissom said. "There's a difference."

Nick, still the most skeptical of them, said, "And Hyde just happened to have a gun and a silencer with him? Give me a break."

Grissom came over to where Nick and Catherine sat; perched on the edge of the table. "Look at when Hyde gambled. He always picked a time when business was slow. He knew someday, somebody might recognize him . . . and he'd have to be prepared. That's why he carried the gun and the noise suppresser."

"Hell," Warrick said. "Maybe that was a part of the buzz."

"Tell us, Grissom," Catherine said. "You can see this, can't you? Make us see it."

And he did.

The .25 automatic, in the holster at the small of his back, brought a feeling of security . . . like that credit card commercial-never leave home without it. On several occasions, he'd almost made it out the front door without snugging the pistol in place, and each time, almost as if the gun called to him, he'd turned around and picked it up.

You just never knew, maybe today would be the day he'd need it. He'd survived this long by being cautious-never scared, just cautious. Dangerous situations required care, planning, consistency. A careful man could survive almost anything.

Over the years, he'd done a number of jobs near Vegas, and he'd always loved the town-Vegas getaways had been something he looked forward to. Now, Vegas getaways from Henderson were twice-a-week oases in a humdrum existence. He derived great pleasure coming to the football field-sized casino at the Beachcomber, but he felt secure: at five-thirty on a Monday morning, only a couple hundred players would be trying their luck.

In a room this size, this time of day, the gamblers were spread out, making the casino seem nearly deserted. Tourists-the few that ventured this far off the Strip-wouldn't be here at this hour unless they were lost or drunk. These were the hardcores, mostly locals, who never gave him a second glance.

Occasionally, a bell would go off, a machine would ding ding ding, or he might hear a muffled whoop from the half-dozen schmucks gathered around the nearest craps table; but basically, the casino remained as quiet as a losing locker room. He might have preferred a little more action, more glitz, more glamour-but he still had that habit of caution even as he took risks.

He always played at this time of day, fewer people, less noise, hell, even the cocktail waitresses didn't bother him now that they knew him to be a recluse and a shitty tipper. He played on Mondays and Wednesdays, Senior Days at the Beachcomber, when a registered player's points would be multiplied by four.

Though only fifty, his ID claimed he was fifty-six, and the silver hair at his temples made it easier to sell the lie. Right now he had the slot card of a nonexistent registered player plugged into a poker machine closer to the lobby than he would have liked. Normally, he'd play further back in the casino, away from the lobby, but his luck had been bad, and a few months ago, this particular machine had been kind. So, he'd positioned himself here, facing the lobby (his shoulder turned away from the security camera, of course).

He punched the MAX bet button, dropping his running total from twenty-five to twenty. He'd started the session with two hundred quarters when he'd slipped a fifty into the machine only a half-hour earlier. Looking at his hand, he saw a pair of threes, one a diamond, the other a club, plus the six, nine, and jack of diamonds. Sucker bet, he told himself, even as he dropped the three of clubs and tried to fill the flush. He hit the DEAL button and was rewarded with the three of hearts. Naturally.

He cursed under his breath, bet five more quarters, and wondered if his luck could possibly get any worse. Over a month since he won any real money, and he wondered what the hell it would take to turn things around. He looked up to see one of last night's holdouts finally trudging toward the elevators, calling it a night. The guy wore a dark suit, his geometric-patterned tie loose at the neck, puffing like a tan flower from his chest.

The video poker hand came up: two kings, a jack, a queen, a seven. He kept the two kings, dropped the others.

When he saw the man's face, he knew his luck wouldn't be changing today, not for the better anyway. He fought the urge to duck under the machine, but it was too late, the suit looking right at him now, recognizing him-Dingelmann.

The lawyer. His lawyer, in another life. . . .

And right now the ever so cool-in-court counselor's eyes were growing wide in surprise and alarm.

Unconsciously, the player's hand moved toward the back of his slacks, under his lightweight sport coat. He stopped as the lawyer took off at a brisk pace, heading for the bank of elevators to the left and, no doubt, the phone that waited upstairs in his room.

Can't do him here, the player thought, way too fucking public. Be patient, patience is the key. He rose, took a step, the plastic chain attaching him to his player's card reining him in, drawing him back.

He pulled the card, and barely aware of it, looked down as the poker machine started burping out coins. He glanced at his hand, four kings. Damnit. Without another thought, he left the machine and followed Dingelmann. As they neared the elevators, the lawyer's pace quickened and a couple of night owls turned, trying to figure out if the guy was loony or just drunk.

The stalker kept his face blank, though his mind raced, nerve endings jangling, long-lost emotions roiling in his gut. The lawyer, almost running now, got to the elevators, punched the UP button repeatedly and just before the killer could get to him, a car came, Dingelmann entered, and the doors slid shut.

Pounding his fist on the door, he watched as the elevator indicator reported its rise to the second floor; he jabbed the UP button, as the indicator registered the third floor. A car stopped, its door sliding open, but before he stepped on, he looked up at that indicator, which had paused at the fourth floor.

He jumped into the empty car and slapped the four button. By the second floor, beads of sweat were blossoming on his forehead and he was pacing like a caged animal. As the elevator passed the third floor, the pistol seemed to jump into his right hand, his left digging the noise suppresser out of the pocket of the linen sport coat. The door dinged at the fourth floor, and he stepped out, screwing the two pieces together.

He listened for a moment. He'd been up into the hotel a couple-of times before, with hookers, and he remembered that a steel-encased video camera hung high on the wall at the far end of the hall. The doors for each room were inset into tiny alcoves, making the hall appear deserted; but the Deuce knew better.

Moving quickly, keeping his head down (even though the camera was thirty yards down the hall), he went from door to door. Finally he found Dingelmann, frightened and fumbling with his key card at the door to room 410.

The Deuce pressed the silencer into the back of the lawyer's head and heard the man whimper. A squeeze of the trigger and a round rocketed into Dingelmann's skull, slamming him into the door, and he slumped, slid, to the floor-already dead.

Then, just to make sure, and out of ritual, he fired one more round into the lawyer's head.

A sound behind him-a yelp of surprise-prompted the Deuce to spin, bringing the pistol up as he did, never forgetting the eye of the security camera. Before him, a skinny, dark-haired waiter carrying a tray full of food gasped a second time as he dropped the tray. The metal plate covers and silverware clanged as they hit the floor, spaghetti exploding across the hallway.

Even before the clatter died away, he and the waiter took off running in opposite directions, the waiter toward the elevators, the Deuce directly at the video camera at the far end of the hall. As he took off, his right foot slipped in the lawyer's blood, and his feet nearly went out from under him. Regaining his balance, he flung himself down the hall, the blood smearing off with his first two steps.

As he sprinted he brought his arm up, destroying any chance the camera had of capturing his face on video. He shoved through the fire exit door into the stairwell and tore down the steps two at a time. As he rushed down, his mind worked over the details. Many things yet to be done.

At the first floor exit he stopped. He unscrewed the silencer, slipped it into a pocket. The pistol went into another and he checked himself carefully for splatter. He found a small scarlet blob on the toe of his right running shoe. Using a handkerchief from his pants' pocket, he daubed the spot away, got his breathing under control, stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow with his left hand, and finally took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out through his mouth. He was ready. He eased the door open and stepped out.

Across the lobby, at the front desk, he saw the waiter screaming at a female desk clerk, and pointing in the general direction of the elevators.

The Deuce, deciding to avoid the lobby as much as possible, turned into the casino, walked past a scruffy-looking blonde girl, probably all of twenty-one, who now occupied his poker machine. The tray was still full of coins from his four kings. Silently cursing, he hoped she pissed it all away.

Avoiding security cameras altogether, often hugging walls, he kept moving, walking not running, not too slow, not too fast, then hustled through the door into the back parking lot, to his car. No rush now-he eased the car out of the parking lot, jogging from Atlantic to Wengert, then finally onto Eastern for the ride home.

The Deuce was free-the lawyer was dead-and Barry Hyde could only wonder whether today had been an example of good luck or bad.

Nick asked, "Then why aren't we busting the guy now?"

"On what evidence?" Grissom asked.

"The videotape," Sara said.

"Can't get a positive ID from that."

Warrick asked, "What about the ATM transaction?"

"Hyde claims his card was stolen. Brass is checking into that now."

"We can match his fingerprints to the shell casings," Catherine offered.

"That's a big one," Grissom said, nodding. "But we have no murder weapon. And nothing that ties Hyde to the murders of Fortunato and Kostichek except the signature."

Greg Sanders leaned in. "Excuse me-oh, Catherine?"

"Yeah?"

"Thought you might like to know-your cigarette butt from Evidence matches the blood you took from the fence."

"All right!" she said, jumping to her feet. All around the room, smiles and nods appeared.

Greg wandered on in, eyes dancing, his grin wide even for him. "That 'ASAP' enough for you?"

"Absolutely," she said, sitting back down.

"But like they say at the end of the infomercials," the lab tech teased, holding up a forefinger, ". . . that's not all!"

Everyone looked at him.

Enjoying center stage, Sanders said to Grissom, "Thanks for the take-out salad."

Willing to play along-for a moment-Grissom asked, "You enjoyed it?"

"I think you will-the saliva matches the DNA from the blood and the cigarette."

"Salad?" Sara asked.

"From the Dumpster behind A-to-Z Video," Grissom said. "Hyde even invited me to help myself to his garbage."

"Nice guy," Sara said.

Catherine smiled. "What CSI would pass up an all-you-can-eat buffet?"

"Well, I stepped up," Grissom said, "with Warrick's help-and now we have Barry Hyde's DNA at the scene of the Fortunato killing . . . ten years before he claims he ever came to Vegas . . . and we've got that same DNA from the fence he vaulted, behind Marge Kostichek's house."

"What more do we need?" Nick asked.

Grissom said, "Right now, nothing-we've got what we need for the warrant that'll get us even more evidence."

"At his residence," Nick said, finally a believer.

"And the video store," Catherine added.

"I'll call Brass," Grissom said. "With any luck, we'll have a warrant in half an hour . . . Nick, Sara, Warrick-get your equipment together, full search. We're rolling in five minutes."

They all seemed to launch at once. The exhaustion left their faces, and they moved now with enthusiasm and a grim sense of purpose. Grissom watched, a faint smile not softening the hardness of his eyes.

As he was heading out, Warrick turned to Grissom and the two men's eyes locked. "Gris, Barry can run . . ."

"But he can't hide," Grissom said.

18

MAINTAINING A LOW PROFILE IN THIS HIGH-RENT NEIGHBORhood would have been damn-near impossible; so Jim Brass didn't even try. In the early morning sunshine, dew still dappling, the cramped court looked like the Circus Circus parking lot: the two Tahoes and Brass's Taurus were parked in front of the Hyde residence, and two Henderson PD black-and-whites were pulled into the driveway across the street (Brass had not been about to repeat his faux pas with the local police, not only alerting them but calling them in).

Neighbors-some in bathrobes, others fully dressed-came out to gawk as the CSI group, led by Grissom and Brass, stepped from their vehicles, a little army removing their sunglasses and snapping on latex gloves. For July, the morning was surprisingly cool, and Warrick and Nick wore dark windbreakers labelled FORENSICS -this was in part psychological, a way to inform the onlookers that this was serious business, and they should keep back and stay away. As the team approached the house, each CSI carried his or her own equipment, each already handed a specific assignment for the scene by Supervisor Grissom.

Warrick would track down the shoes, Nick dust for prints, and Sara handle the camera work. Catherine would join Grissom as the designated explorers, their job to search out the more obscure places, seeking the more elusive clues. Brass-the only one not in latex gloves-would take care of Hyde.

As they marched up the sidewalk to the front door, an aura of anxiety burbled beneath the professionalism.

"Think he might start something?" Nick asked, obviously remembering the close call at the Kostichek house.

At Nick's side, Warrick shook his head, perhaps too casually. "Why should he? Sucker thinks he's Superman. We ain't laid a glove on him yet."

Brass heard this exchange, and basically agreed with Warrick-but just the same, he approached the door cautiously. He held the warrant in his left hand, his jacket open so that he could easily reach the holstered pistol on his hip. Behind him, Grissom motioned his crew-their hands filled with field kits and other equipment, looking like unwanted relatives showing up for a long stay-away from the door, corralling them in front of the two-car garage.

With a glance over his shoulder, Brass ascertained the CSIs were out of the line of fire; then he slowly moved forward. The front door-recessed between the living room on the left and the garage on the right-reminded the detective of the room doors at the Beachcomber, providing a funny little resonance, and a problem: if something went wrong, only Grissom-barely visible, peering around the corner like a curious child-would see what happened.

Nick's words of apprehension playing like a tape loop in his brain-"Think he might try something?"-Brass, within the alcove-like recession, stepped to the right of the door, took a deep breath, let it out . . . and knocked, hard and insistently.

Nothing.

He waited . . .

. . . he pressed the doorbell . . .

. . . and still nothing.

Glancing back at Grissom-who gave him a questioning look-Brass shrugged, turned back, and knocked once more.

Still no response.

Grissom moved carefully forward to join the homicide cop, the rest of the crew trailing behind.

"I don't think our boy's home," Brass said.

Grissom reached out and, with a gentle latex touch, turned the knob.

The door swung slowly open, in creaking invitation, Brass and Grissom both signaling for the group to get out of the potential line of fire.

"Open?" Brass said to Grissom. "He left it open?"

"Cat and mouse," Grissom said. "That's our man's favorite game. . . ."

They listened, Brass straining to hear the slightest sound, the faintest hint of life-Grissom was doing the same.

Long moments later, they traded eyebrow shrugs, signifying neither had heard anything, except the sounds of a suburban home-refrigerator whir, air-conditioning rush, ticking clocks. Drawing his pistol, Brass moved forward into the foyer of the modern, spare, open house-lots of bare wood and stucco plaster and stonework.

Grissom said to Warrick, "Tell those uniformed officers to watch our back. Then join us inside."

"On it," Warrick said, and trotted toward Henderson's finest.

Then Grissom and the other CSIs joined Brass, inside.

A wide staircase to a second-floor landing loomed before them; hallways parallel to the stairway were on its either side, leading to the back of the house-kitchen and family room, maybe. At right was the door to the attached garage, and at left a doorless doorway opened onto the living room.

The loudest thing in the quiet residence was Brass's own slow breathing, and the shoes of the team screaking on the hardwood floor.

In a loud voice-startling a couple of the CSIs-Brass called out, "Barry Hyde-this is Captain James Brass, Las Vegas PD! We have a search warrant for your home and its contents! . . . Sir, if you are here, please make yourself known to us, now!"

The words rang a bit, caught by the stairwell, but then . . .

"Simon and Garfunkle," Sara said.

Brass looked at her.

"Sounds of silence," the CSI replied, with a shrug.

Brass eased forward and turned left into the living room, his pistol leveled-a big, open, cold room with a picture window, a central metal fireplace, and spare Southwestern touches, including a Georgia O'Keefe cow-skull print over a rust-color two-seater sofa.

"Clear!" Brass called, when he came back into the foyer, Warrick had already joined Nick, Sara, Catherine and Grissom, who were fanning out-firearms in hand, an unusual procedure for these crime scene investigators, but the precaution was vital.

Opening the door to the attached garage, Nick flipped the light switch and went in, pistol at the ready. After a quick look around, he yelled, "Clear."

They went from room to room on the first floor-Brass, Nick, and Warrick-checking each one. Grissom and Catherine-weapons in their latexed hands-stood at the bottom of the open stairway, to make sure Hyde didn't surprise them from above.

When Brass, Nick and Warrick returned to the foyer, they all shook their heads-nobody downstairs. Brass then led the way up the stairs, with the same combo of guns and caution, and they inspected the second floor the same way.

"It's all clear," Brass said, returning to the top of the stairs, holstering his handgun. "Barry Hyde has left the building."

"Okay," Grissom said, obviously pleased to be putting the gun away, "let's get to work. You all know what to do."

Sara unpacked her camera, Nick his fingerprint kit and they went to work as a team. Catherine and Warrick disappeared into other parts of the house.

Adrenaline still pumped through Brass as he came down the stairs. "Couldn't the son of a bitch have done us the courtesy of just opening the door and getting indignant about his rights and his goddamn privacy?"

"You're just longing again," Grissom said, "for those days when you could shoot a perp and then say 'freeze.' "

"That approach has its merits."

"So is he not home . . . or is he gone?"

"I said he might be a flight risk."

Grissom nodded, starting up the steps. "I'll check his clothes, his toiletries-see if there are any suitcases in the house."

Brass moved into the living room, where Sara was snapping photos that would comprise a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the room, working from that central fireplace. As she moved on to another room, Brass poked around. The front wall consisted of one huge mullioned window looking out onto the street, and that lone sapling in the front yard.

A television the size of a compact car filled most of the west wall to Brass's left. A set of shelves next to the TV was filled with stereo equipment, several VCRs, a DVD player, and a couple of electronic components Brass didn't even recognize. On shelves over the television sat a collection of DVD movies, most of which Brass had never heard of. I have to get out more, he thought.

Opposite the entertainment center sat a huge green leather couch and a matching recliner squatted along the shorter southern wall. Next to the recliner and at the far end of the couch were oak end tables supporting lighter-green modernistic table lamps with soft white shades. A matching oak coffee table, low-slung in front of the couch, displayed a scattering of magazines with subscription stickers to BARRY HYDE and a few stacks of opened mail and loose papers.

Grissom came in, saying, "No clothes seem to be missing, but it's hard to say. Closet with suitcases seems undisturbed, and all the normal toiletries-toothbrush and paste, aftershave, deodorant-seem to be at home."

"So maybe he's just out for breakfast. Or putting bullets in somebody else's brain."

"You find anything yet?"

Brass pointed at the line of movie cases on top of the television. "I found out I haven't seen a movie since John Wayne died."

Without sarcasm, Grissom asked, "And this is pertinent how?"

The detective shook his head. This was one of the reasons he liked Grissom: the scientist had little use for the outside world, either. His universe consisted of his calling and the people he worked with; beyond that, not much seemed to get Grissom's attention.

"Nothing pertinent about it," Brass said. "Just a social observation."

Kneeling, Grissom started going through the material on the coffee table. Brass plopped down on the couch, watching as the criminalist leafed through Hyde's magazines. Several were vacation guides, one was a Hustler, and the last one a copy of Forbes.

"Varied reading list," Grissom said.

"Travel, sex, money," Brass said. "American dream."

Loose papers, in with the mail, included various reports from the video store, a folded copy of a recent Sun, and an A-to-Z memo pad-an address in black ballpoint scrawled on the top sheet.

Holding up the pad, Grissom asked, "Familiar address?"

"Marge Kostichek?"

"That's right. Why do you think Barry Hyde has Marge Kostichek's address in his home? In the same stack including a newspaper with an account of the discovery of a certain mummified body?"

"I could maybe come up with a reason."

"But if he's expecting us-if he knows he's on the spot-why leave this lying around?"

Brass considered that. "More cat and mouse?"

Grissom's eyes tightened. "Maybe he hasn't been home since we talked to him. Get Sara, would you, Jim? I want a picture of this."

Outside a horn blared, and both men looked through the picture window to see a huge semi-truck, out in the suburban street, apparently somewhat blocked by the two curbed SUVs. The driver of the van blew the horn again, and the Henderson cops-who were parked in the driveway of the home across the street-were approaching.

Sara's voice came from the kitchen. "What's going on out there?"

Brass and Grissom looked at the moving van, then at each other. From Grissom's expression, Brass found it a safe bet that the criminalist had a similar sick sinking feeling in his stomach. . . .

"Let's go outside and talk," Brass said, rising from the sofa, his voice lighter than his thoughts.

Grissom got up, too, saying, "You guys keep working."

The CSIs did, but in strained silence; something in Grissom's voice had been troubling. . . .

Following Grissom outside, Brass felt a headache, like a gripping hand, taking hold of him. Every time they got a goddamn break in this case, it evaporated before they could play it out! And he knew, damnit, he just knew, it was happening again. . . .

The coveralled driver-heavyset, about twenty-five, with sweaty dark hair matted to his forehead and a scruffy brown mustache and goatee-had already climbed down out of his cab to talk to the Henderson uniformed men. The latter moved aside as Brass and Grissom came quickly up, meeting the driver in the street, in front of the van. Another guy-a mover-was still seated up in the cab; he had the bored look of the worker at the start of a thankless day.

Brass flashed his badge. "What are you guys doing here?"

Not particularly impressed by the badge, the mover said, "What do you think? We're here to move furniture."

"What furniture?"

He pointed to the Hyde residence. "That furniture."

"There must be a mistake," Brass said.

Fishing a sheet of paper from his pocket, the mover said, "Fifty-three Fresh Pond Court."

Brass and Grissom traded a look.

"Show me," Brass said.

Rolling his eyes, the mover handed the sheet of paper over to Brass.

"This seems to be in order," Brass said, reading it, giving Grissom a quick look, then handing the paper back.

Grissom asked, "How were you supposed to get in? Was someone supposed to meet you here?"

The mover shrugged. "Guy on the phone said the police would be here to let us in . . . and here you are."

"When did this work order come through?"

"Just now-I mean, they called the twenty-four-hour hotline. It was a rush job. They paid extra-through the nose, better believe it."

"Son of a bitch," Grissom said, and sprinted toward the nearest Tahoe.

Brass yelled at the mover, "Get that truck out of here-now!"

"But . . ."

"There's a murder investigation going on. You touch that furniture, you're in violation of a warrant."

"Maybe I oughta see-"

"Get the hell out of here!" Brass blurted, and the mover jumped. Brass planted himself and glared at the guy and, finally, the man climbed back into the truck and ground the gears into reverse. As the moving van backed slowly up the court, Grissom was cranking the Tahoe around; then he pulled up next to Brass.

"You coming?" Grissom asked. He seemed calm, but Brass noted a certain uncharacteristic wildness in the CSI's eyes.

Brass jumped into the passenger seat and the SUV flew out of the court, going up on a lawn to get around the semi. As they hurtled down the adjacent Henderson street, Brass-snapping his seatbelt in place-asked, "You want me to drive?"

"No."

"Want me to hit the siren?"

"No."

Accelerating, Grissom jerked the wheel left to miss a Dodge Intrepid. Brass closed his eyes.

As the criminalist ran a red light, Brass flipped on the flashing blue light-still no siren, though. Right now Grissom was jamming on the brakes, to keep from running them into the back end of a bus.

Brass was glad it was such a short hop to A-to-Z Video.

The SUV squealed into the lot and slid to a stop in front of the video store. Grissom was out and running to the door before Brass even got out of his seatbelt. Working to catch up, the detective pulled even just as Grissom pushed through the door and said, "Where's Barry Hyde?"

The cashier said, "Mr. Hyde isn't here right now."

Grissom cut through the store, down the middle aisle, Brass hot on his heels.

Pushing open the back-room door, Grissom demanded, "Where is he?"

Patrick, the hapless assistant manager, merely looked up, eyes wide with fear, and he burned his fingers on his latest joint. With a yelp of pain, the kid jumped out of his chair and backed into a corner.

"Barry Hyde," Grissom said. "Where is he?"

"Not . . . not here. I told you guys before, he won't be back until Monday!"

Grissom pushed through a connecting door into the back room. Brass tagged after. Shelves of videos, stored displays, empty shipping boxes, and extra shelving, but no Barry Hyde. The criminalist and the cop went back through the office, where the assistant manager stood in trembling terror, the scent of weed heavy.

"Sometime soon I'll be back," Brass said, "and if there's any dope on these premises, your ass'll be grass."

Patrick nodded, and Brass went after Grissom, who had already moved out into the store.

As Grissom headed toward the cashier's island, and Brass labored to catch up, a tall blond man in a well-tailored navy blue suit stepped around an endcap, and held out a video box.

The smiling cobra-Culpepper.

"You like Harrison Ford movies, Grissom?" the FBI agent asked casually, his voice pleasant, his smile smug.

"Why am I not surprised to see you here," Grissom said, with contempt.

"This is a modern classic, Gil," Culpepper said. "You really should try it-cheap rental, older title, you know."

And Culpepper held out the video: Witness.

Brass frowned, not getting it.

"I haven't seen it," Grissom said. "Is it about a freelance assassin in the Federal Witness Protection Program?"

Oh shit, Brass thought, as it all clicked.

"No," Culpepper said. "But that would make a good movie, too-don't you think?"

Grissom's voice was detached and calm, but the detective noted that the criminalist's hands were balled into fists, the knuckles white. "You weren't looking for your Deuce, Culpepper-you already had him . . . you've had him for almost five years. You were just hanging around criminalistics, to see what we knew, learn what we found, so you could keep one step ahead."

Leaning against the COMEDY shelf, a self-satisfied grin tugging at a corner of his cheek, Culpepper said, "I really can't say anything on this subject. It's sensitive government information. Classified."

"You can't say anything, because then I could have you arrested for obstruction."

Culpepper's smile dissolved. "You're a fine criminalist, Grissom. You and your team have done admirable work here-but it's time to pack up your little silver suitcase and go home. This is over."

Grissom glanced at Brass. "Those short trips Hyde was making, Jim-he wasn't doing hits. The Deuce really was retired-and Barry Hyde was off on short hops, testifying in RICO cases and such. . . . Right, Agent Culpepper?"

"No comment."

"You people made a deal with a mad dog, and now you're protecting him, even though he's murdered two more people."

Now Culpepper turned to Brass. "Maybe you can explain the facts of life to your naive associate here. . . . When cases are mounted against organized crime figures-the kind of people who deal in wholesale death, through drugs and vice of every imaginable stripe-deals with devils have to be made. Grown-ups know that, Grissom-they understand choosing between the lesser of evils."

"Compromise all you want, Culpepper," Grissom said. "Evidence makes no compromises-science has no opinion beyond the truth."

The agent laughed. "You ever consider goin' into the bumper-sticker business, buddy? Maybe you could write fortunes for fortune cookies? You have a certain gift."

"I like the job I'm doing just fine. I'm just getting started on this case. . . ."

"No, Grissom-stick a fork in yourself. You're done."

Grissom's eyes tightened; so did his voice. "When I'm done, Culpepper, you'll know it-you'll be up on charges, and Barry Hyde will be on Death Row."

"Barry Hyde?" Culpepper asked, as if the name meant nothing. "You must be confused-there is no Barry Hyde. Within days the house on Pond Court'll be empty, and in a week, A-to-Z Video will be a vacant storefront."

"Call Hyde whatever you want," Grissom said. "I've got enough evidence to arrest him for the murders of Philip Dingelmann, Malachy Fortunato and Marge Kostichek."

"There's no one to arrest. Barry Hyde doesn't exist-it's sad when a man of your capabilities wastes time chasing windmills."

"Barry Hyde's a sociopath, Culpepper," Grissom said. "What's your excuse?"

With a small sneer, Culpepper leaned in close and held Grissom's gaze with his own. "I'm telling you as a brother officer-let it go."

"You're not my brother."

Culpepper shrugged; then he turned and walked quickly out of the store.

Grissom watched the exit expressionlessly, as Brass moved up beside him, saying, "Real charmer, isn't he?"

"Snake charmer."

"Is he right? Are we done, you think?"

"Culpepper doesn't define my job for me-does he define your job for you, Jim?"

"Hell, no!"

"Glad you feel that way. Let's get back to work."

They drove back to the house in silence; both men were examining the situation, from the ends of their respective telescopes. The moving van still sat blocking the court, and Grissom had to park around the corner. As they walked past the truck, Brass was concerned to see no one up in the vehicle. "Where are they?"

Grissom shook his head and headed toward the house. The other Tahoe and Brass's Taurus were still parked out front; the Henderson cops leaned against their squads, sipping something from paper cups. Trotting up the driveway, Grissom led the way through the front door. They found the two movers sitting on the stairs sipping similar cups.

Grissom and Brass nodded to the movers, who nodded back.

"Honey, I'm home!" Grissom announced, voice echoing a bit, in the foyer.

Sara came in from the kitchen, the camera still in her hands. "Where have you been?"

"The neighborhood video store."

Brass said, "Hyde's flown the coop."

Grissom asked her, "Where's everybody?"

With appropriate gestures, she responded. "Nick's printing the bathroom, then he'll be done. Catherine's doing the garage. Warrick found three pairs of running shoes and bagged them. I think he's . . ."

"Right here." Warrick walked down the stairs, stopping just above the two movers. "You guys want some more lemonade?"

They both shook their heads, sliding to one side, so Warrick could come down the stairs between them.

Warrick stood before Grissom and said, "I'm sure one of those pairs of shoes is the right one, Gris. He had three identical pair-really liked 'em."

"Anything else?" Grissom asked.

Nick ambled in from the bathroom. "I've got plenty of prints . . . plus, I found this on the desk in Hyde's office." He held up a plastic evidence bag with a pile of letters inside. "Letters from Petty to Marge Kostichek-which he obviously stole from Kostichek's."

Brass gave Grissom a hard look. "I hope the LAPD catches up with the Petty woman-or that she really knows how to run away and start over. If Hyde has any friends in L.A., we could be looking for another body."

Grissom asked the movers to wait outside, which they did. Then-with the exception of Catherine, who wasn't finished out in the garage-Grissom gathered everyone around him in the foyer and explained the video store encounter with Culpepper.

"Prick," said Warrick.

"You're saying he just made Hyde disappear," Sara said.

"After we talked to Hyde last night," Grissom said, "that was it. Hyde made a call, and they whisked him out of town. He didn't even stop back at home, for fear he'd run into us."

Brass said, "And now they'll start him over, somewhere."

Sara looked dazed. "How can they do that?"

Brass smiled, wearily. "The feds play by their own rules. They don't give two shits about ours."

"So, that's it?" Nick asked, truly pissed. "We bust our butts, and the FBI pulls the rug out from under us? It's just . . . over?"

"I know Gil wants to pursue this," Brass said, "that's my desire, too. But maybe we have to face facts-we've been screwed over by people who were supposed to be our allies. How do we fight Uncle Sam?"

"Let's back up," Grissom said. "Before we march on Washington, let's review what we have, other than a lot of circumstantial evidence. If Barry Hyde walked into this house, we could arrest him-but could we convict him?"

"We could now," Catherine said.

Everyone turned to see her standing in the doorway to the attached garage. An evidence bag dangled from her right hand, inside of which was tucked a 1930's vintage Colt .25 automatic.

Brass felt a smile spreading. "Is that what I think it is?"

"It's not a water pistol. And, if the boss will allow me to make an educated guess, I'm predicting the barrel on this baby will match the bullets we took from Marge Kostichek. And the primer markings on shell casings found at all three murders should tie Mr. Barry Hyde up in one big bloody bow."

Astounded but pleased, Grissom took the bagged weapon, asking her, "Where did you find it?"

"I'll show you."

Catherine led the way into the garage. She stopped in front of a fuse box on the back wall, while the others gathered around her in a semicircle. The gray metal box looked like every other fuse box in the world, with conduit running out the top, disappearing inside the false ceiling of the attic above.

"I noted a fuse box in the basement," she said. "So I wondered why he would have a fuse box in the garage, when there's no heavy duty tools and only two one-hundred-ten outlets."

"Nice catch," Grissom said.

She opened the little gray door, revealing no breakers, no fuses, no anything except the end of the hollow conduit. With her hands in their latex gloves, she removed the gun from the evidence bag to carefully slip it inside the conduit, to demonstrate where she had found it; then just as carefully rebagged the evidence.

Sara, grinning, shaking her head, said, "Almost your classic 'hide it in plain sight.' "

"And the feds lifted him out of this life so fast," Warrick said, "he didn't have to take his favorite toy with him."

"We should look for the black ninja outfit," Sara said. "He obviously made a quick stop here after he killed Marge Kostichek, before going back to the video store."

Everyone was smiling now, proud of Catherine, proud of themselves. That left it to Brass to bring them back to reality.

"Okay," Brass said, "so we have the evidence. But we still don't have Barry Hyde. He's in the FBI's loving arms, helping them bring the really big bad guys down."

"Please," Sara said, making a face. "I may want to eat again, someday."

Grissom did not seem put off by Brass's little speech. "Let's get back to work. Sara's right, let's look for those clothes. . . . We've got a killer to catch."

"But Brass said this was over," Nick said.

"We need to gather our evidence," Grissom said, calmly, "analyze it, prepare it for use in Hyde's eventual prosecution. And, of course, Sara's going to play the major role."

"I am?" she asked, bewildered.

"Don't be modest," Grissom said, with a tiny enigmatic smile. "Let's finish up here, guys-then we'll go back and I'll tell you how we're going to nail Barry's hide to our non-federal wall."

19

BEFITTING THE BITTER DECEMBER WEATHER, THE FEDERAL Courthouse in Kansas City might have been fashioned from ice by some geometrically minded sculptor, not an architect working in glass and steel. The interior of the structure, however well-heated, remained similarly cold and sterile. No straight-back wooden chairs for the jury boxes in this building, rather padded swivel chairs and personalized video monitors-though the latter were seldom used, as lawyers so frequently arranged plea bargains before trials began. The justice meted out here seemed to contain no compassion, no humanity, also no punishment in some cases-just judgments as icy as the steel and glass of a structure that seemed a monument to bureaucracy . . . and expediency.

In a courtroom on the second floor, Gil Grissom-in a dark jacket over a gray shirt with black tie, a gray topcoat in his lap-sat in the back row, his eyes on the three-sided frame screen whose white cheesecloth concealed the witness box. Another set of screens blocked any glimpse of the witness's entrance by way of the judge's chambers. Onlookers took up only a third of the gallery.

The twelve jurors-evenly divided between men and women-sat blankly, though the unease of several was obvious; one individual looked as if he'd rather be in a dentist's chair. Behind the bench, the judge was moving his head from left to right, and front to back, apparently trying to work a kink out of his neck.

At the prosecutor's desk a wisp of a woman in a gray power-suit sat next to a bullish federal prosecutor. At the defense table, a nationally known attorney-at least as well-known as the late Philip Dingelmann, whose murder had finally hit CNN, the day the owner of A-to-Z Video disappeared-wore a gray suit worthy of a sales rack at Sears. He had the wild long hair of an ex-hippie, the tangled strands now all gray; he was a character-the kind of lawyer Geraldo loved to book.

Right now he was sucking on a pencil like it was a filterless Pall Mall, speaking in quiet tones to his client. The lawyer had made his bones defending pot farmers and kids charged with felony possession. When the drug of choice shifted to cocaine and the cartels moved in, the attorney had changed-and grown-with the times.

Back here in the cheap seats, Grissom could see only the lawyer's profile, and that of his client, Eric Summers, whose black hair, with its hint of gray, was tied in a short ponytail, his face angular, clean-shaven, with a sharp, prominent chin. Despite his conservative dark suit and tie, this defendant in a major RICO case looked more like a middle-aged rock star, and why not? His forays into the distribution of controlled substances, escort-service prostitution and big-time dot-com scams-the local papers referred to him as "a reputed leader among the so-called new breed of K.C. gangsters"-had allowed him to enjoy a rock-star lifestyle.

Up front, just behind the prosecutor's table, a blond head bobbed up, in conferral with the female prosecutor. Grissom leaned forward, to get a better view-Culpepper, all right.

The witness was escorted in, shadows playing behind the cheesecloth curtain-probably a federal marshal back there, with him-and then the witness took the chair of honor. The bailiff, on the other side of the screen, swore the witness in, referring to him only as "Mr. X."

Grissom sat forward, not breathing, not blinking, focused solely on the two words that would now be spoken-the words he had shown up to hear, the sound that would make worthwhile his CSI unit finding time for this case, over these last six months, despite whatever demands other crimes might make. It might even justify the overtime Sara Sidle had maxed out on. . . .

And the witness promised to tell the truth, and nothing but, in the traditional fashion: "I do."

Grissom smiled.

The voice was an arrogant voice, self-satisfied . . . the distinctive voice of Barry Hyde.

And Grissom could breathe again. He even blinked a few times. Hours of work, weeks of tracking, months of waiting, had come down to this. Outside were freezing temperatures, an inch and a half of snow, and his colleagues-Warrick Brown, with Sara Sidle, guarding the building's side entrances, Jim Brass covering the back, Nick Stokes standing watch out front.

Grissom and Catherine Willows-in a black silk blouse, black leather pants, a charcoal coat in her lap-sat in the courtroom watching the proceedings, just two interested citizens. Next to Catherine sat Huey Robinson, a Kansas City detective, black and burly, big as a stockyard, barely fitting into his pew. O'Riley knew Robinson-they had been in the army or Marines or something, together-and Brass had recruited the hard-nosed cop, in advance, from the local jurisdiction.

That minor debacle with the Henderson PD had reminded Jim Brass that a little interdepartmental courtesy went a long way; and Grissom had seen from Culpepper's example how a show of contempt for another PD's concerns could rankle.

Sending Grissom, his unit and Brass to Kansas City for this trial had been expensive; but Sheriff Brian Mobley had been so furious with Culpepper that he'd have spent half a year's budget, if it meant settling scores with the conniving FBI agent.

So with Mobley's help, all the jurisdictional i's had been dotted, and the t's painstakingly crossed. For this exercise to work, everything would have to be by the book.

And right now the object of that exercise was testifying behind a cheesecloth curtain-a vague shadow, but a specific voice.

"It's him," Grissom whispered to Catherine.

Catherine nodded as she looked around the gallery, slow-scanning the faces for possible undercover FBI agents, mixed in with the citizens.

The judge said, "Your witness, Mr. Grant."

Rising slowly, milking the dramatics, the prosecutor said, "Mr. X, you performed a certain task for Mr. Summers, did you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was that task?"

"I killed people."

The prosecutor turned to the jury box, letting that sink in; then said, "On more than one occasion?"

"Yes. Three times."

"Did he pay you to assassinate one of his competitors-a Mr. Marcus Larkin?"

"He did."

The prosecutor started to pace in front of the white curtain. "When was this, Mr. X?"

"Just about eight years ago. . . . It'll be eight years, February."

For three and a half hours in the morning, the prosecutor led Barry Hyde through a description of the assassination of Marcus Larkin, a local pimp and drug dealer. When the judge called the lunch break, Grissom and Catherine ducked out of the courtroom, leaving the building, to prevent Culpepper from seeing them. Kansas City cop Robinson-who was unknown to the FBI agent-stayed behind to keep an eye on things.

Catherine suggested grabbing Hyde at the lunch break, but Grissom knew that could put them at odds not just with the FBI, but with a pissed-off federal judge.

"Better we wait," he told her, in the corridor, "till Hyde's testified and the judge doesn't have any further use for him."

So they sat in the rental van, eating sub sandwiches for lunch. The car heater thrummed, throwing out more hot air than the attorneys inside, though never enough to satisfy these desert dwellers, who were literally out of their element in this cold, snowy clime.

"There's Culpepper," Catherine said, pointing to the FBI agent, as he strode up the Federal Courthouse's wide front walk. They watched him disappear into the building.

"That's our cue," Grissom said.

"Yeah. Remember, we got deliveries to make first."

Grissom carried the sandwiches and Catherine the tray of cups of hot coffee-the latter at least a token effort toward thawing the CSIs assigned to standing outside in a wind chill barely above zero.

They came to Sara's station first. In her black parka with the hood pulled up and drawn tight, only her nose seeming to peek out, she looked like a reluctant Eskimo. Hopping from foot to foot, she wore huge black mittens that made her hands look like useless paws.

"Oh, God," she said when they approached. "I thought you'd never get here. I'm freezing. Do people really live in this crap?"

"Stop whining," Grissom said. "How did you survive in Boston?"

"Alcohol-lots and lots of alcohol."

Catherine said, "You'll have to settle for caffeine," and handed Sara a cup of coffee.

"Th-th-thanks."

"Go sit in the van for a while," Grissom said, and he handed her the keys. "This may go all afternoon. The prosecutor took most of the morning, and the defense will take even longer. When you get warmed up, relieve Nick out front."

"I'll never warm up," she groused, accepting the keys and putting them into her pocket.

"This isn't any colder than Harvard yard, is it?"

Sara flipped him off, but the mittens ruined the gesture. He held a sandwich out and she took it and trudged toward the rental vehicle.

"She did a hell of a job on this," Grissom said, watching the young woman trundle off.

"Yes she did," Catherine said.

For these past months, on top of all of her other duties, Sara had kept tab on every mob-related federal trial across the country in an effort to determine when and where Barry Hyde would surface, to testify.

"Somebody better take this post," Catherine said.

"Right."

"Are you staying here or am I?"

"You." He took the tray of coffee cups from her.

"Power corrupts, you know," she said.

"Absolutely," he said.

As he moved off, she called, "Don't be a stranger. Feel free to stop back." She pulled up the hood of her gray coat and jammed her gloved hands into her pockets.

But Grissom was actually on his way to relieve Brass, who in turn took over for Warrick. After an hour, Nick had replaced Catherine, and Warrick had taken over for Grissom, in the back of the courtroom. With a still-shivering Catherine beside him, Grissom finally got back inside the court around three-thirty, easing into their seats beside Detective Robinson.

The defense attorney was attacking Mr. X's credibility. "Mr. X, isn't it true that you would be on Death Row if the government had not intervened and cut a deal with you?"

Behind the curtain, the shadow bounced a little as Hyde chuckled. "No, that's not true. The authorities attempted for years to catch me. Truth is, most federal officers couldn't catch a cold."

This elicited a nervous laugh from the gallery, and a banging of the gavel from the judge-also a warning from His Honor to Mr. X. Frowning, Culpepper turned his head away from the witness stand-almost far enough to spot Grissom. . . .

Catherine glanced at Grissom, who shook his head. Didn't see us, he mouthed.

Culpepper was facing front again.

"I turned myself in," Mr. X went on. "I wanted out of that filthy life. You see-I've been born again."

That caused Catherine to smile and shake her head. As for Grissom, despite his antipathy for Hyde, he was enjoying watching the defense attorney search hopelessly for a ladder to help him climb out of the hole he had just dug himself.

Realizing too late his error, the defense attorney finally muttered, "No further questions, Your Honor."

The prosecutor sat back, relaxing just a little.

Grissom rose and moved to the door, Catherine and Detective Robinson falling in behind him.

The judge asked, "Any redirect, Mr. Grant?"

"None, Your Honor."

Pushing the door open, Grissom stepped into the corridor just as Culpepper was getting to his feet. Throwing on his overcoat, Grissom strode quickly down the hall, pulling the walkie-talkie from his pocket. He pushed the TALK button and spoke rapidly. "It's going down now. Everybody inside. Second floor Judge's chambers."

He turned a corner to the right and practically sprinted down the hall so he could be at that door when Hyde came out. Behind him, he heard Catherine and Robinson pounding along step for step.

Opening the door, stepping into the hall, was a marshal, maybe fifty years old with a crewcut on a bowling ball head, and a shabby brown suit jacket a size or two too small. Barry Hyde emerged next, wearing an expensive gray suit and a matching Kevlar vest. Behind Hyde came a second marshal, this one younger, probably in his early thirties, longish brown hair combed straight back, his charcoal suit a better fit than his partner's.

Grissom stepped in front of them, holding up the folded sheets of paper. All three men froze. The older marshal eyeballed Grissom, the younger one reflexively reaching under his jacket.

"Las Vegas Metropolitan Police-I have a warrant."

"Mr. Grissom, isn't it?" Hyde asked, the pockmarked face splitting into a typically smug smile. "How have you been? Couldn't you find a warmer place for your winter vacation?"

"Sir," the older one said to Grissom, giving Hyde a quick glare to shut up, "I'm afraid you've wandered off your beat. . . ."

"This warrant is legal, Marshal." He held it up for the man to see.

But it was the younger marshal who leaned in for a look.

"Wrong guy," he said. "That's not our witness's name. . . . Now, if you'll excuse us." His hand remained under his coat.

Catherine and Robinson formed a wall behind Grissom.

Then Culpepper's voice came from behind Grissom. "Aw, what the hell is this nonsense?"

But the young marshal was curious, despite himself. "What's the charge?"

"First-degree murder-three counts."

The two marshals exchanged glances, and Hyde's smug grin seemed to be souring.

"You have no legal grounds, Grissom," Culpepper said, moving into the midst of it, anger building to rage. "No jurisdiction . . . This man is a federal witness granted immunity for his crimes."

Warrick, Nick, Sara, and Brass all seemed to appear at once-in their heavy coats, they looked ominous, a small invading army.

Grissom was well-prepared for this assertion from Culpepper; and for all to hear, he said, "This man has no immunity for murders he committed after making his agreement with the government-specifically, the murders of Philip Dingelmann and Marge Kostichek."

The marshals exchanged frowning glances, and Hyde's smirk was long gone.

Brass slipped between Culpepper and the rest of the group.

Handing the warrant to the older marshal, Grissom said, "Read it over, Marshal-I think you'll find everything in order."

The older marshal pulled a pair of half-moon reading glasses from his inside suit-coat pocket, and read.

Steaming, Culpepper said to the marshals, "If you two surrender my witness to this asshole, your careers are over."

People down in the main corridor were clustered there now, watching the goings-on in this side hallway.

Robinson, his basso profundo voice resonating throughout the corridor, introduced himself to Culpepper, displaying his badge, and saying, "If you do not surrender this prisoner to these officers, you will be accompanying me, them and the prisoner to the Locust Street Station."

Brass added, "After which, you can come home with us, to Las Vegas, where you'll be charged with obstruction of justice."

Culpepper's lip curled in a sneer. "Officer Robinson, this is a federal courthouse-and you're in way over your head."

Ignoring this, Robinson moved in beside Grissom, his Kansas City cop's glare firmly in place as he stared at the younger marshal, to whom he also displayed his shield. "And you, sir, would be well served to get that hand out from under your coat."

The younger marshal looked over at his partner who nodded. Slowly, the empty hand came out of the coat and dropped to his side.

"Thank you, sir," Robinson said.

Anger had turned Culpepper's face a purplish crimson; looking past Brass, at the marshals, he said, "We need to get the witness out of here. March him the hell out."

Robinson turned toward him, but Brass was closer, and held up a hand, as if to say, Please . . . allow me. Grabbing Culpepper roughly by the arm, Brass said, "You want to be the next FBI agent to go down for obstruction? I got no real problem helping you do that."

Culpepper glared at him, but said nothing, his glibness failing him at last.

The older marshal said to Grissom, "You really think this man," he glanced at Hyde, "killed Philip Dingelmann?"

"It's not an opinion," Grissom said. "I have the evidence to prove it."

"I'll die of old age before you prove it," Hyde said, blustering now, his smugness, his self-confidence a memory. "You haven't got anything!"

"We have something," Brass interjected. "We have the death penalty."

Hyde managed a derisive grin, but the bravado had bled out.

"You're almost right, Barry," Grissom said to the object of the tug of war. "We don't have much. Just you on casino videotape, bullets and shell casings matching your gun, with your fingerprints; then there's your footprints, matching DNA from the Fortunato and Kostichek murder scenes . . ."

Hyde's face drained of color.

". . . but why spoil your attorney's fun? We should leave something for the discovery phase."

"This time you may want to go to a different law firm," Brass advised him, "than Dingelmann's."

Culpepper's hand dropped to his pistol and he said, "This is my witness. This is an illegal attempt to hijack a protected government witness-all of you step aside."

Culpepper didn't see the older marshal draw his weapon, but he certainly felt the cold snout of it in his neck. "Put the gun away, Agent Culpepper-Jesus, didn't you assholes learn anything from Ruby Ridge?"

The FBI agent's face turned white and he was trembling as he moved his hand away. Brass moved toward Culpepper, fist poised to coldcock him; but Grissom stepped between them.

"Calm down, everybody," Grissom said. Then he turned to the devastated FBI man.

The younger marshal holding on to his arm, Hyde said, "You're in charge, Culpepper-remember, you're in charge!"

"Agent Culpepper," Grissom said, "either we're going to walk out of here with Hyde in our custody, or you can go downstairs with us and face the media. How do you think you're going to explain to the American people that you're aiding and abetting a murderer? Obstruction is nothing compared to accessory after the fact."

Culpepper seemed to wilt there in front of them.

Hyde said, "Goddamnit, Culpepper-they're bluffing!"

Time seemed to stop as the two men stared at each other, like gunfighters on a Western street; but Grissom had already won, without using any weapon but his wits.

"Fine," the agent said to Grissom. "Take him."

Hyde, realizing he'd just been sold out, tried to make a break for it, yanking himself free from the younger marshal's grip, running toward the gathering crowd at the end of the hallway. But he didn't get six feet before Warrick and Nick grabbed him on either side. Before he could do more than wrestle around a little, Robinson had his hands cuffed behind him.

"Smart decision, Agent Culpepper," Grissom said. "It's just sad when a man of your capabilities goes tilting at windmills."

"Go to hell, Grissom."

Grissom cocked his head. "Is that any way to talk to a 'brother' officer?"

Culpepper muttered, "Next time," then turned on his heels and headed quickly down the corridor, almost on the run-away from the crowd.

And his witness.

"Culpepper!" Hyde yelled. "What, you're gonna leave me hanging?"

"Actually," Brass said, "it's lethal injection."

"Cul-pepper!" he wailed.

But Culpepper was gone.

Ambling up to Grissom's side, Catherine said, "You know for somebody who smiles as much as he does, Culpepper doesn't seem to have much of a sense of humor."

"He's lucky I didn't cap his ass," Robinson said, "goin' for that gun . . ."

The older marshal extended his hand to Grissom. "Nice piece of work, even if we were on the receiving end of some of it. . . . I'm sorry, what was your name?"

Warrick-who had one of Hyde's arms-said, "Why, that's the Lone Ranger," and Nick-who had Hyde's other arm-grinned big.

Smiling, their boss said to the marshal, "Gil Grissom, Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau."

As they shook hands, the marshal said, "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Grissom." He nodded toward Hyde, who stood between Warrick and Nick with his head low. "We've been babysitting that stuck-up prick for too long. It'll be good to see him pay for his crimes, for a change."

"See what we can do."

Then the marshal turned to his young partner, saying, "Come on, Ken-we better get goin'. We're gonna be filling out reports on this one for the next hundred years."

Not as enthusiastic as his partner, the younger marshal followed the more experienced man up the hallway with a frown, apparently trying to assess how much damage he had just done to his career.

Brass moved in front of Hyde, gave him a nice wide smile. "You have the right to remain silent . . ."

"Well," Catherine said to Grissom. "You got him-you happy?"

"We got him," Grissom corrected. "And, yes, I'm very happy."

"You don't look happy."

"Well, I am."

The killer had been stopped, he was thinking; but what a swath of carnage this sociopath had cut. . . .

As Nick and Warrick led the prisoner toward the elevator-with Robinson accompanying them-Brass, Sara, Catherine and Grissom all fell in behind.

As they waited for the elevator, Catherine asked Grissom, "So-what do we do now?"

Everyone except Hyde looked Grissom's way.

Bestowing them all a smile, Grissom said, "Let's go back where it's warm."

Author's Note

I would like to acknowledge the contribution of Matthew V. Clemens. Matt-who has collaborated with me on numerous published short stories-is an accomplished true crime writer, as well as a big fan of CSI. He helped develop the plot of this novel, and worked as my researcher.

Criminalist Sergeant Chris Kauffman CLPE, Bettendorf (Iowa) Police Department, provided comments, insights and information that were invaluable to this project. Books consulted include two works by Vernon J. Gerberth: Practical Homicide Investigation Checklist and Field Guide (1997), and Practical Homicide Investigation: Tactics, Procedures and Forensic Investigation (1996). Also helpful was Scene of the Crime: A Writer's Guide to Crime-Scene Investigations (1992), Anne Wingate, Ph.D. Any inaccuracies, however, are my own.

Jessica McGivney at Pocket Books and Michael Edelstein at CBS were remarkably helpful, providing support and guidance. The producers of CSI were gracious in providing scripts, background material and episode tapes, without which this novel would have been impossible.

Finally, the inventive Anthony E. Zuiker must be singled out as creator of this concept and these characters. Thanks to him and other Season One CSI writers-including Josh Berman, Ann Donahue, Elizabeth Devine, Andrew Lipsitz, Carol Mendelsohn, Jerry Stahl, and Eli Talbert-whose scripts provided information and inspiration.

MAX ALLAN COLLINS has earned an unprecedented nine Private Eye Writers of America "Shamus" nominations for his "Nathan Heller" historical thrillers, winning twice (True Detective, 1983, and Stolen Away, 1991).

A Mystery Writers of America "Edgar" nominee in both fiction and nonfiction categories, Collins has been hailed as "the Renaissance man of mystery fiction." His credits include five suspense-novel series, film criticism, short fiction, songwriting, trading-card sets and movie/TV tie-in novels, including In the Line of Fire, Air Force One, and the New York Times--best-selling Saving Private Ryan.

He scripted the internationally syndicated comic strip Dick Tracy from 1977 to 1993, is co-creator of the comic-book features Ms. Tree, Wild Dog, and Mike Danger, has written the Batman comic book and newspaper strip, and the mini-series Johnny Dynamite. His graphic novel, Road to Perdition, has been made into a DreamWorks feature film starring Tom Hanks and Paul Newman, directed by Sam Mendes.

As an independent filmmaker in his native Iowa, he wrote and directed the suspense film Mommy, starring Patty McCormack, premiering on Lifetime in 1996, and a 1997 sequel, Mommy's Day. The recipient of a record five Iowa Motion Picture Awards for screenplays, he wrote The Expert, a 1995 HBO World Premiere, and wrote and directed the award-winning documentary Mike Hammer's Mickey Spillane (1999) and the innovative Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market (2000).