"My head is starting to hurt."
Catherine was thinking. "I wonder if Grissom had any luck with the California DMV."
"Later," Nick said, gazing up hungrily.
Their food had arrived-whether it was the waitress or the cheeseburger that put that look on his face, Catherine didn't really care to know.
In less than a day they had gone from identifying the killer back to square-one as they tried to figure out who paid for the Deuce to whack Malachy Fortunato. Perhaps, Nick did have the right idea. For now, maybe she should just eat her chicken sandwich and try to forget about the sudden multitude of suspects they had.
After lunch, Catherine dropped Nick off at HQ, so he could begin going through the evidence again. Such a reappraisal was always a necessary aspect of scientific criminal investigation, because new information and perspectives continually put the evidence in a different light. But if they were going to catch the person who hired the killer, that would likely depend upon matching the fingerprints on the documents, and Jenny Northam matching the handwriting.
Catherine wasn't far from Annie Fortunato's residence when her cell phone rang.
"Hey, it's Nick. Grissom had Joy Petty's driver's license photo waiting for me here when I got back."
"And?"
"It's her, all right. Older, not so cute, but it's her-Monica Petty or Joy Starr or Joy Petty or-"
"A rose by any name." Catherine's hand tightened on the wheel of the Tahoe. "Tell O'Riley or Brass-maybe one of them can go out to L.A. and interview her."
"Speaking of O'Riley," Nick said, "he got the fingerprints and writing sample from Marge Kostichek."
"Good-just pulling up in front of the Fortunato house," she said. "Be back in an hour."
"Later," he said, and disconnected.
Catherine parked the car and walked up to the door, the smaller version of her field kit in one hand. A single dim light shone through the living room curtains. Catherine knocked on the door.
After a moment, Annie Fortunato opened the door slowly. Though she was completely dressed, in a blue T-shirt and darker blue shorts, she looked a little disheveled; as usual, a glowing cigarette was affixed to thin white lips. "Hi, Miz Willows-come on in, come on in."
Catherine stepped inside.
Smiling, Mrs. Fortunato asked, "What can I do for you?"
A smell Catherine instantly recognized-Kraft macaroni and cheese-wafted through from the front room; it wasn't long after lunch.
"I apologize for not calling first . . ."
"Hey, no problem." She took a drag off the cigarette. "I know you're trying to help."
"I'm glad you understand that. I need to get a set of fingerprints from you."
Her eyes wide, Mrs. Fortunato said, "Pardon?"
"I need a set of your prints-I need them from Gerry, too."
"Why?" The warmth was gone from the woman's voice now.
"We found fingerprints on the Joy Starr note. In your husband's effects?"
"Why on earth . . ."
Hoskins's voice floated in from the back of the house. "What is it, Annie?"
Mrs. Fortunato turned and, in a loud hard voice, called, "Catherine Willows is here-she needs our fingerprints!" Then she turned back to Catherine and rage tightened the haggard features. "You think one of us did it? . . . hell, I didn't even know Gerry then. He didn't even live in this town."
The awkwardness of it lay heavy on the shoulders of the already-tired Catherine. "It's just a formality really, to make it easier . . . you know, to eliminate you from the others."
But the more Mrs. Fortunato thought about it, the more worked up she got. "You think I killed my own husband? I thought you were my friend."
"Mrs. Fortunato . . ."
Smoky spittle flew. "You bitch! How dare you come around here?"
Catherine held up her hands, tried to explain. "Honestly, Mrs. Fortunato, I'm not even considering the possibility that you killed your husband," she lied. At this point, she only knew she didn't want to leave without those prints. "But when we catch who did this terrible thing, their lawyer is going to be looking for any way to get his client off-including implicating either you or Gerry in the murder."
Mrs. Fortunato stood there frozen; she had been listening, at least. Catherine, with relief, watched as the woman's anger evaporated.
Hoskins came in from the bedroom, still pulling on a shirt, as he tried to zip his jeans with one hand. "You all right?" he asked.
Catherine wondered if she'd interrupted something-dessert, after the macaroni and cheese, maybe.
"She wants to take our fingerprints, yours and mine, she says."
"What shit is-"
"So that if they catch whoever killed Mal, their lawyer won't be able to implicate us."
They both looked at Catherine now-suspicion in their eyes.
Wearily, she leveled with them. "Look-it's my job to find out who murdered Malachy. And you're both going to be considered suspects, now that his body has finally been found."
"So you are just a bitch," the woman said.
"Listen to me-please."
Hoskins wrapped a protective arm around Mrs. Fortunato. "How in hell you could ever think . . ."
"I'm not your friend," Catherine snapped. "And I don't have an opinion one way or the other. I follow the evidence-that's my job. That's why I was digging in your driveway last night-that wasn't for fun. The more evidence I have, whether it convicts or exonerates, gets me closer to finding out who murdered Malachy Fortunato, and bringing that person or persons to justice. Not just the hired killer, but the person-or persons-who hired him . . . whether it was the mob, you, or someone else altogether."
Stunned, the pair just stared at her. Hoskins kept his arm around Mrs. Fortunato, but said, finally, "How can we help?"
Sighing, relieved but weary, she started over: "I need fingerprints from both of you."
The man nodded. "Can you do it here, or do we have to go to the station?"
From her field kit, Catherine removed a portable fingerprint kit. "We can do it here." She wanted to kick herself for botching this so badly. It shouldn't have gone like this; thank God Grissom wasn't around.
Mrs. Fortunato seemed embarrassed. "I'm sorry for calling you . . . for what I said."
Managing to summon up a gentle smile, Catherine said, "I'm sorry if I misled you in any way. I know this isn't how you thought things would go . . . but I have to investigate everything, every aspect-good or bad, comfortable or uncomfortable."
"I know, I know. It's just all been so . . . emotional. Gerry and I are both on edge. I'm sure you folks are too."
Every day, Grissom would remind them, we meet people-on the worst day of their lives.
Catherine printed them quickly, now in a rush to get the hell out of there. She had just opened new wounds in this old affair, and she wanted to slip away as swiftly as possible.
As she finished and handed Hoskins a paper towel, to wipe off the ink, he said, "Thank you," and Catherine said, "No, thank you, Mr. Hoskins."
He walked her to the door. "Ms. Willows."
"Yes?"
"One favor?"
"Try."
He swallowed. "Catch the son of a bitch."
Her eyes met his and held. "Oh, Mr. Hoskins. I will. I will."
13
IN HENDERSON, WARRICK-WITH CONROY RIDING IN FRONT, Sara in back-guided the Tahoe down Fresh Pond Court, looking at street numbers; this was a walled (not gated) housing development, designed for, if not the rich, definitely the well-off. When the SUV pulled up at the house in question, Brass's Taurus was already parked in front, Grissom in the passenger seat. The two CSIs and the homicide detective got out and jogged up to the unmarked vehicle, Warrick taking the lead.
The stucco ranch was the color the local real estate agents called "desert cream," and sported the obligatory tile roof, with a two-car attached garage and a well-manicured lawn. Not many houses in the area could boast so richly green a lawn, or even grass for that mat
ter; most front yards were either dirt or rock. This one rivaled a golf-course green, but instead of a flagged hole, a single sapling rose right in the middle. The rambling house had a quiet dignity that said "money"-no, Warrick thought, it whispered the word.
"Somebody made the American dream pay off," Warrick, leaning against the roof of the Taurus, said to his boss. "You been up to the door yet?"
His expression blank, Grissom still had his eyes on the place. He said, "When we got here. Nobody home. Where have you been?"
A sheepish half-grin tugged a corner of Warrick's mouth. "We kinda got lost."
"How many CSIs does it take to screw in a light bulb?" Brass asked, sitting behind the wheel.
"Two and a homicide detective, apparently," Sara said. "Conroy's with us."
"Hey, it's a new neighborhood," Warrick said. "Last time I was out this way, it was scrub brush and prairie dogs."
"Skip it," Grissom said. "Nobody home anyway."
Conroy had gone around the other side of the vehicle, to talk to Brass; she was asking him, "You want me to check around back?"
"We don't have a warrant," Brass said. "We're gonna step carefully on this-case like this, you don't want to risk a technicality."
"Almost looks deserted," Sara, sidling up next to Warrick, asked her seated boss. "Nobody home, or does maybe nobody live here?"
A dry wind rustled the leaves of the front yard sapling.
"Furniture visible through the front windows," Grissom said, "and the power company, water company, and county clerk all agree-this is the residence of one Barry Hyde."
"You don't let any grass grow," Warrick said.
"Except for occasionally getting lost, neither do you."
Warrick took that as the compliment it was.
"In fact, I think we've earned a break," Grissom said.
"Huh?" Sara said.
"I think we should go check out the new video rentals," Grissom said.
Warrick, pushing off from the roof of the Taurus, said, "Might be some interesting new releases, at that."
Conroy stayed with the Taurus, at the residence, while Brass piled into the Tahoe, in back with Sara, with Warrick and Grissom in front.
From the backseat Brass said, "If you'd like me to drive, I do know the way."
"I came up with this address," Warrick said, trying to keep the edge out of his voice. "I'll do the honors."
Barry Hyde's video store was close to his house, just a few turns away and onto Wigwam Parkway. Glad he had his sunglasses on, Warrick turned into the Pecos Legacy Center parking lot, where glass storefronts reflected bright afternoon sunlight. A-to-Z Video-a typical non-chain store of its kind with a neon sign in the window and movie poster after poster taped there-sat at the far end of the strip mall, a discount cigarette store its next-door neighbor.
Brass led the way into the video store, Grissom hanging back, in observer mode. To Warrick, it looked like every other non-chain video store he had ever been in-new releases around the outside wall, older movies in the middle. DVD rentals filled the section of the wall to the right of the cash register island, which was centered between the two IN and OUT doors. At the rear of the store was a door that presumably led to the storage area and the manager's office.
Behind the counter, in the cashier's island, stood the only person in the store, a petite American Indian woman of about twenty, a blue imitation Blockbuster uniform over slacks and T-shirt, her straight black hair worn short. Her name tag said SUE.
Fairly perky, and perhaps a trifle surprised to have customers, she asked, "Hi-welcome to A-to-Z Video. Are you looking for a particular title?"
"Sue, I'm looking for Barry Hyde," Brass said. He didn't get out his badge-this seemed to be a toe in the water.
The cashier smiled. "Mr. Hyde is out for the day. May I be of assistance?"
"When do you expect him back?"
"I'm sorry. He's not going to be available until after the weekend."
Now Brass displayed his badge in its leather wallet. "Could you tell me why he's not available?"
Seeing that badge, the cashier's cheerfulness turned to mild apprehension. "Oh, well-I'd like to help you, but I'm just . . . uh, maybe you should talk to Patrick."
Brass's melancholy face twitched a sort of smile. "And who is Patrick?"
"The assistant manager. He's in charge until Mr. Hyde gets back."
"I'd like to talk to Patrick. Is he around?"
"In the back," she said. She pressed an intercom button and said, "Patrick, someone to see you?"
The intercom said, "Who?"
"I think it's the police. . . . I mean, it is the police."
Patrick said, "Uh . . . uh, just a minute, uh . . . I'll be . . . uh . . . right . . . uh . . . out."
Four minutes later, more or less, Grissom was prowling the store like each video was potential evidence; but the others-Warrick included-were getting impatient.
Warrick realized that mid-afternoon wasn't a busy time for any video rental store; but this place seemed particularly dead. He noted the posted rental rates-they weren't bargains.
Brass leaned against the counter. "Sue-would you rattle Patrick's cage for me again?"
The cashier was about to touch the intercom button when the door in the back opened and ambling out came a zit-faced kid who seemed younger than the cashier. Bleached blond with a dark goatee and black mid-calf shorts, he had a sharp, short nose, small lips and green eyes with pupils the size of pinheads; but for the blue polo shirt with A-to-Z stitched over the breast pocket, he looked like a guitar player in a metal band.
As the kid stepped by him, Warrick noticed Patrick (as his name tag confirmed) smelled like a combination of Tic Tacs and weed. Which explained their four-minute wait.
The assistant manager said, "Can I . . . uh . . . like, help you?"
Brass seemed to be repressing a laugh; they'd sent for a manager and got back Maynard G. Krebs. "Are you Patrick?"
He thought about it. Then, without having to refer to his name tag, he said, "Yeah. McKee. Is my last name."
"Patrick, we'd like to talk to you about your boss-Barry Hyde."
The kid's sense of relief was palpable in the room and Warrick turned away to keep from laughing out loud. He pretended to study the new DVD release wall so he could still listen to the conversation.
Patrick asked, "What about Mr. Hyde?"
"He's out of town?"
Nodding, Patrick said, "Until Monday."
"Is Mr. Hyde out of town a lot?"
The kid had to think about this question for a while, too. Finally, he managed, "Some."
"For how long? How often?"
"He's been doing it since I've been here." Shrug. "Uh . . . eight months."
Brass shook his head. "That's not what I meant, Patrick. I mean, how long a period of time is he generally away?"
"Sometimes a couple of days, sometimes a week."
Warrick pulled a DVD box off the shelf and pretended to read the back-Real Time: Siege at Lucas Street Market. He knew Hyde couldn't be gone for long stretches, because the man had rarely missed his regular Monday and Wednesday visits to the Beachcomber.
Patience thinning, Brass was asking, "Do you know where Mr. Hyde is now?"
Patrick thought about that one for a long time too. "No. I don't think he said."
"What if there's an emergency?"
The kid's face went blank. "Emergency?"
"Yeah, emergency. He's the boss. Don't you have a number to call if you get robbed or a customer has a heart attack in the store? Or maybe a valuable employee, like you, has a family crisis?"
"Oh, sure," Patrick said.
"Could you give us that number?"
"Yeah-nine-one-one."
Brass just looked at the kid. Then he blew out some air, and called back to Grissom, at the rear of the little group. "You want to take a crack at this?"
Grissom put his hands up in surrender.
Warrick put the DVD box back-100% Multi-angle!!! -turn
ed, and stepped forward. "Why don't you guys wait outside. I'll talk to Patrick."
Sara's eyes met Warrick's-they were on the same wavelength. She said, "Yeah, guys-I'll stay with Warrick."
Grissom, sensing something from his CSIs, turned to look at Brass, shrugging. "Any objection, Jim?"
"All right," Brass said. He said to Grissom, "Why don't you run me over to the house."
His car and Detective Conroy were there, after all.
"Sure," Grissom said. Then to Warrick and Sara: "Pick you up in fifteen."
Once the homicide cop and Grissom had left, Warrick turned to the assistant manager. "Okay, Patrick, truth or dare-just how stoned are you?"
The eyes widened; however, the pupils remained pinpoints. "No way!"
Sara said, "Cut the crap, Patrick. Dragnet has left the building-this is the Mod Squad you're talking to. . . . We know there's stoned, and there's stoned."
Patrick seemed to have lost the ability to form words. He stood there with his mouth hanging open.
"Why don't the three of us," Warrick said, slipping his arm around the skinny kid, "go into the back office, and just chill a little."
"Not the back room. I mean . . . uh . . . it's . . . uh . . . private."
"That's why we're going to use it," Sara said. "Because it's private-customer comes in, we won't be in the way."
The beleaguered Patrick looked to the cashier for help, but she turned her back, suddenly very interested in sorting returned videos. "Uh . . . I guess so . . ."
"Cool," Warrick said. He led the way to the back and was the first one through the door. The cubicle reeked of weed, even though the kid had lit three sticks of incense before he'd come out front. The " office" consisted of a shabby metal desk, a cheap swivel chair, some two-by-four-and-plywood shelves piled with screener tapes, and walls decorated with video promo posters, mostly for XXX-rated tapes.
"Sorry," Patrick said, coming through the door next. "It's kind of . . . uh . . . grungy back here."
"And," Sara said, just behind him, "it smells like Cheech and Chong's van."
"On a Friday night," Warrick added.
Unable not to, the kid grinned at that.
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