Nick held out the bagged cigarette. “Swell—'cause I need DNA on this.”
Picking it up, holding it to the light, Sanders said, “Ugh—grotty! How long has this baby been part of the ecosystem?”
With a shrug, Nick said, “I don't know. You tell me.”
“Take a number. Got a backlog. Gonna be a while.”
“What else isn't new?”
Sanders shot him a look. “Hey, I'm only one guy.”
“I know, Greg, but who else is ready to loan you Gran Turismo Three on PlayStation Two?”
All business now, Sanders said, “You just hit the top of my list.”
The files rolled by one after one, blurring into each other, the coffee growing more bitter with each cup, and still Catherine couldn't seem to find a lead.
Nick came through the door and plopped down on a plastic chair just inside her office. “Anything?”
“Well, I think I've eliminated about forty missing persons with either a first initial or a middle initial of ‘F.’ ”
“And now?”
“Starting on the ‘F’ last names.”
“How many are there?”
“From ten to twenty years ago, only another hundred or so that are still open.”
“If our mummy's from Vegas.”
A look came across Catherine's face. “Got a better idea?”
Nick checked his watch. “Time to try the prints.”
Returning to the morgue, they lifted the hands out of the Formalin, and set them on an autopsy table to dry.
“Give them a while, then we'll print them,” she said. “Let's get something to eat, then come back.”
He nodded. “Sounds good.”
She smirked, shook her head. “You think there's anything gross enough to spoil a CSI's appetite?”
“When something comes up,” Nick said slyly, “I'll let you know.”
Forty-five minutes later, after their deli sandwiches, they returned and printed both the palms and the second flange of the fingers below the amputations. They fed the prints into AFIS, got fifteen possible matches. It took the rest of the shift to go through them and, when they finished, they still had nothing.
Catherine stretched her aching muscles, looked at her watch and said, “I've got to get home to get Lindsey off.”
Nick nodded. “I'm going to catch some breakfast.”
“Food again.”
“Then I might log a little overtime, try to run down the jeweler's initials on the ring. You wanna join in, after you get Lindsey to school?”
She shook her head. “I need some sleep. I put my overtime in on the front end of my shift. . . . Call me later, tell me what you find.”
“You got it,” he said, picking up the evidence-bagged ring.
In the parking lot, Catherine headed left toward her car and the trip home to her daughter while Nick went right, climbed into his own ride and took off to find a bite to eat. When he had first moved from Dallas to Vegas, he frequently took advantage of the casinos' breakfast buffets. But now, after working off the pounds he had gained doing that, he was more careful about where and how much he ate.
He only knew one jeweler, personally, in the city—an older guy named Arnie Mattes, who a while back Nick had helped to prove innocent of robbing his own jewelry store in a suspected insurance scam. Mattes wouldn't be at his store for another hour at least; this gave Nick time for a leisurely breakfast at Jerry's Diner, and a chance to actually read the morning paper, instead of just glancing through it.
Though the Las Vegas Sun carried a front-page story about the discovery of the mummy at the construction site, the murder at the Beachcomber found itself relegated to a small story on page two of the Metro section. The mummy story was unusual, just a hint of sensationalism for morning reading; but the dead man in the hallway might have alarmed tourists, so that was played down. The city fathers, Nick knew, were sensitive to any scandal that might ruin the wholesome, family environment they'd been working so hard to cultivate.
He moved on to the sports section. Nick was a dyed-in-the-wool baseball fan—the Las Vegas 51's had shutout the Nashville Sounds last night—but because of his work attended few games and was forced to follow the team's progress in the paper when he got the chance.
After finishing his meal, Nick drove the short distance from the small café to Mattes' jewelry store, just off Charleston Boulevard. The CLOSED sign still hung in the door when Nick pulled up, but he spotted Mattes placing a necklace in the window, and parked the car in front. Walking briskly to the door, Nick knocked.
Mattes recognized the young criminalist at once, waved, and moved to the door to unlock it. “Nick Stokes, as I live and breathe. Welcome, welcome—come in, get out of the heat.”
Smiling, Nick entered. “How are you doing, Mr. Mattes?”
“Fine, Nick, fine, fine.” Pushing seventy, the jeweler stood maybe five-six and seemed almost like a child playing dress up, his skinny arms practically swallowed up by the baggy short sleeves of his white shirt. Black-rimmed glasses slid halfway down his nose, with a small magnifying glass, looking like a little crystal flag, waving from the left corner of the frames. “What about you, son?”
“I'm good, but I've got a problem I thought you might be able to help me with.”
“Anything.”
Pulling the evidence bag from his pocket, Nick held it up so Mattes could see the ring inside. “Can you tell me who made this?”
Mattes took the bag from Nick, held it up to the light. “May I remove it from the bag?”
“Please.”
Carefully, the jeweler set the plastic bag on the glass counter, separated the seal, and almost religiously lifted the ring out. “Kind of gaudy, for my taste. Of course, that's typical in this town.”
A crooked smile played at the corners of Nick's mouth. “What else can you tell me?”
Pulling his magnifying glass down over the left lens of his glasses, Mattes studied the ring for a long moment, turning it this way and that. “These initials,” he said, pointing inside the gold band.
“J-R-B.”
“Yes. The manufacturer of this particular item. The initials of J.R. Bennett.”
“You know him?”
Mattes nodded. “An acquaintance from many years in the business. He runs a shop in the mall attached to the Aladdin. . . . Oh, what is it called?”
“Desert Passage?”
“That's it, son, Desert Passage. His store is called . . . something a little too precious . . . uh, yes. Omar's.”
“Omar's?”
“Silly theme they have, there, desert bazaar. When you visit Mr. Bennett, give him my regards.”
“I will, Mr. Mattes, and thanks.”
“Stop by any time, Nick. Remember what I said—you find a girl, we'll find a ring for her.”
Nick glanced to one side and grinned, then looking back at the jeweler said, “I'll keep that in mind, sir.”
Supposedly fashioned on a Casablanca marketplace, the Desert Passage mall was the only place in Vegas that could be counted on for regular rainfall. Every quarter hour, in fact, the mall's indoor thunderstorm broke loose for five minutes; positioned over the lagoon, the manmade storm managed to rain a great deal and yet never get anything wet. The tourists seemed to love it, stopping to take pictures of the water gushing from hidden sprinklers in the ceiling, amazed by the white flashes of strobe lightning.
Nick had walked about a quarter of the way around the mall—thinking about his late girlfriend, Kristi, for whom he'd bought bath and body oil at a little kiosk, here—when he spotted Omar's.
The jewelry store was small, but Nick could tell the good stuff when he saw it—and this was the good stuff. Only one U-shaped glass counter showed the various wares of the store, designed for lucky winners with new money to burn; but for the most part, this wasn't the place to buy off the rack: this was where the wealthy had jewelry designed for them.
Behind the counter stood a fiftyish man who had to be six-
seven, at least. The tall man had short hair thinning on top, an angular face that gave away very little, and large brown eyes that revealed even less. He gave Nick what might have been a smile. “May I help you, sir?”
Showing the man his credentials, Nick asked, “Are you J.R. Bennett?”
“Yes.”
Nick withdrew the evidence bag from his pocket, showed the jeweler the gold ring with the diamond “F.” “Have you seen this ring before?”
“Most certainly,” Bennett said. “I designed and crafted it.”
“Can you tell me for who?”
“Whom,” Bennett corrected.
Sighing, Nick turned back to the jeweler and said, patiently, “Can you tell me for whom you made this ring?”
“Malachy Fortunato.”
That was a mouthful.
Nick frowned. “You don't have to check your records or . . .”
“Malachy Fortunato. I designed and crafted this ring exactly eighteen years ago at the order of Mr. Fortunato himself.”
“One glance, and—”
“Look at it yourself. The ring has no elegance, no style. I remember most of the pieces I have created fondly. Not this one—but it was what the customer wanted.”
“So,” Nick said, “you're sure about the ring—but the timing? Eighteen years ago . . . ?”
“Yes, three years before he disappeared.”
“Disappeared?”
The jeweler sighed; this apparently was an imposition. “Yes, I don't recall the details. It did make the newspapers, though. Does this ring mean that you've found him?”
“I don't know, Mr. Bennett. But you've been a big help. Thanks for your time, sir.”
“My pleasure,” he said, though it clearly hadn't been.
Nick was barely out of the shop before he was punching Catherine's number into his cell phone. He had a strong suspicion she would want to log some overtime on this one, too.
5
IN THE CHEM LAB, WARRICK CHECKED THE INSTRUCTION sheet on the counter for the fourth time, then slowly stirred the fluid in the beaker. Sara appeared in the doorway just as he was finishing up. Her jeans and dark blue blouse looked crisp enough, but Sara herself looked about as tired as he felt.
“What witch's brew is that?” she asked.
Tapping the beaker with his glass stirring rod, Warrick said, “Smith's Solution.”
“Whose solution?”
“Smith's.”
She drifted in, leaned against the counter. “New to me.”
“New to everybody. Just got printed up in the journals, couple months ago. I found the recipe in The Journal of Forensic Identification.”
“Always a handy cookbook.” Sara nodded toward the beaker. “What wonders does it work?”
“Fingerprints on shell casings come up nice and clean. . . . Intern named Karie Smith, working in Bettendorf, Iowa, came up with it.”
“God bless the heartland,” she said, flashing her distinctive gap-toothed smile. Her interest was clearly piqued. “No kidding—no more smears?”
“Thing of the past—buggy whips and Celluloid collars.” Using a forceps, Warrick picked up one of the hotel shell casings by the rim and dipped it into the solution. He left it there for only a few seconds, then pulled it out and ran some tap water over the casing. Holding it up to the light, he let out a slow chuckle. “Got it.”
“Show me.”
He turned the casing so Sara could eyeball the partial print near the base. Her smile turned wicked as she said, “Let's shoot this sucker, and get it into AFIS.”
They both knew there was no way to successfully lift the print off the casing. All they could do was photograph it. But that would get the job done just fine. While Sara got the camera, Warrick set up the shot on the countertop. He placed the casing carefully on top of a black velvet pad, with the print facing up. She snapped off four quick shots.
“Where you been all night?” he asked.
“Running the prints from the room.”
“Yeah? Come up with anything?”
She moved to a different angle and shot the shell casing four more times. “Not much—just the victim.”
“Give!”
“A Chicago attorney—one Philip Dinglemann.”
Warrick frowned at her. “Why do I know that name?”
“I don't know. Why do you?”
“Don't know . . . but I do. . . .” He sighed, frustrated at the rusty gears of his own thinking; long night. “What about the woman's prints?”
“A hooker.”
“What a shock.”
“Working girl's been busted three or four times in town, but mostly she works outside Clark County at the Stallion Ranch. You'll love this—her name's Connie Ho.”
Warrick's sleepy expression woke up a little. “Ho?”
Sara lifted her hands palms up. “What're you going to do? She's from Hong Kong; is it her fault her name's a pun? Been in the States almost ten years. Became a citizen year before last.”
“Long enough to know Ho is a bad idea for a hooker's last name.”
“Maybe she considers it advertising.”
Warrick smiled a little. “I can't wait for you to tell Grissom we need to go to the Stallion Ranch to interview a Connie Ho.”
Sara gave him a wide smile; even Warrick had to admit that gap was cute. “We only work the evidence, remember? Isn't that what you always say?”
It was—but Warrick, like the rest of the CSIs, sometimes questioned suspects relative to evidence because, frankly, the detectives just didn't have the familiarity with crime scene findings to pull it off properly.
“Anyway,” she was saying, “I already filled Grissom in. He called Brass and got him to go out to the ranch, so we could work the evidence.”
“Great,” Warrick said. “Much rather spend my time with prints and shell casings than go out to the Stallion Ranch.”
Her grin turned mischievous. “I knew you wouldn't want to be bothered interviewing a bunch of silly half-naked women.”
Actually, she was right, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
“So,” she said, their photography session completed, “what's next?”
“First, we put these prints into AFIS,” he said, nodding to the camera, “then we go downstairs and see how Sadler did with that Palm Pilot. I asked him to rush it.”
Before long they were in the minuscule basement cubicle of computer technician Terry Sadler. In his late twenties, with short brown hair and long narrow sideburns, Sadler had skin with the pale glow of someone who saw the sun far too infrequently.
“What's up, Terry,” Warrick said. “Find anything on our Palm Pilot?”
Like a manic ferret on a double cappucino, Sadler sat hunkered over his work station with his fingers flying and his keyboard rattling. “Just the usual stuff,” he said, his words as rapid as his actions. “A list of phone numbers, his schedule, couple of pieces of e-mail. I printed it all off for you.”
“Where is it?”
Rooting around his desk with one hand, other hand hunt-and-pecking, Sadler finally held up a thin manila folder. “Here you go.”
Sara was watching this with wide eyes.
“Thanks, Terry,” Warrick said, as low-key as Sadler wasn't. “I owe you.”
“That's right.” The computer tech threw a glance at the criminalist. “The usual.”
“Usual. . . . How's tomorrow night?”
“Just fine, Warrick. Just fine.”
They headed back up the stairs, Warrick leafing through the papers in the file as they went.
“What's ‘the usual’?” Sara asked.
“Once a week, I spring Chinese delivery for him and two of his cellmates down there.”
“Jeez—that's gotta run fifty bucks.”
He gave her a slow smile. “Sometimes the wheels of justice need a little grease.”
Shaking her head, she asked, “So, what's in the file?”
Putting the e-mail file on top, he handed it to
her.
Aloud, she read, “ ‘Phil, this is no time to get lost. Less than a week till showtime. We should be getting prepped. Where the fuck are you?’ Touching missive—unsigned.”
They moved into the break room; Sara sat while Warrick poured cups of coffee.
“We can trace the address of the sender, easy enough,” Warrick said. “It's got to lead to somebody.”
“ ‘Showtime,’ ” Sara said, re-reading the e-mail. “Was this guy an entertainment lawyer?”
Driving out to the Stallion Ranch was not how Homicide Detective Jim Brass really wanted to spend a July morning. The news radio voice had reported the temperature at 105 ° and he'd shut off the radio before any more good news could ruin his day further. The brothel was outside his jurisdiction, so Brass had taken the liberty of trading in his unmarked brown Ford Taurus for his personal vehicle, a blue Ford Taurus. Such small distinctions—brown car for blue—were the stuff of his life of late.
When he had been demoted to Homicide from heading up the Criminalistics Bureau, he'd been angry, then frustrated and of course bitter. But time—and not that much of it—had smoothed things out. Strangely, working as an equal with Gil Grissom and the quirky group that made up the crime lab unit was proving much easier—and more rewarding—than supervising them.
A desk was no place for Jim Brass. Now he was back in the field, doing what he did best—doggedly pursuing murderers, and the suspects, witnesses and evidence that bagged them.
When Grissom had called him toward the end of night shift, Brass had been only a little surprised to learn that his victim had been a lawyer and not at all surprised to find the woman was a prostitute. But the hooker's name—Connie Ho—just had to be a put on.
The Stallion Ranch sat all alone in the scrubby desert landscape, just south of Enterprise, on the other side of the county line. The only other sign of life out here was a truck stop half-mile down the road. The neon sign of a horse rearing was hard to miss even shut off in the morning sun. He swung into the short drive that led to the actual “ranch house,” which was what they called it in the brochures, anyway. The structure looked more like a T-shaped concrete bunker with the top of the “T” facing the road. Only a few other cars, and two eighteen-wheelers parked off to one side, dotted the nearly deserted dirt parking lot.
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