Double Dealer

by Max Allan Collins

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

  “No rental?”

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

  Nick was interested. “All the victims' cars disappeared?”

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

  Nick was nodding. “Dumped, here and there.”

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

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

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

  “Which is?”

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

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

  “Like who?”

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

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

  Nick threw his hands palms up.

  “You suppose Grissom wants to hear . . .” She mimicked his gesture.

  “Okay,” he said, rising, throwing a grin off to the sidelines, “I get it—more digging.”

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

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

  Sara frowned in interest. “Dancer?”

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

  “Catherine would.”

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

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

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

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

  “I might. . . . She was a doll, in her day.”

  “Joy whatever?”

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

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

  “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  “Anything?” she asked him.

  “Not much,” he replied.

  “Nothing?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Sure,” Harper said. “Understand, this could take a while.”

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

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

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

  “Thanks, Greg. Matched the dental already though.”

  “Gran Turismo is still a deal, right?”

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

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

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

  Sanders smirked. “That piece of crud was about fifteen years old—barely anything left.”

  “Way it goes.”

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

  Nick sat up. “You're kidding.”

  “Not workable, though.”

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

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

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

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

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

  He knocked on the door.

  “Yeah,” came the tired voice from the other side.

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

  “Get the switch, will you?”

  Nick did, b
athing the room in fluorescent light.

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

  “You look like hell.”

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

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

  Little nod. “Yeah.”

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

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

  “Even you get to be human.”

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

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

  “That place still open?” Grissom asked, meaning Swingers.

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

  “That's Brass's responsibility.”

  Nick shrugged. “Can't find him.”

  “O'Riley?”

  Nick shook his head. “Off duty.”

  “Conroy?”

  “The same.”

  Grissom considered the possibilities. “Take Warrick with you.”

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

  “Okay,” Grissom said casually, “then let's go.”

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

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

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

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

  “Right.”

  “Give me a second to brush my teeth.”

  “Sure, boss.”

  “And, uh—brush yours, too. There'll be ladies present.”

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

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

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

  “Slow night,” Nick said.

  “Experience?” Grissom asked.

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

  Skepticism touched Grissom's smile.

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

  Nick said, “We're . . .”

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

  Nick keep trying. “We're from the Las Vegas . . .”

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

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

  The bouncer didn't move. “So?”

  “We'd just like to speak with the owner.”

  “About what?”

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

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

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

  The bouncer glared and took one ominous step forward.

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

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

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

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

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

  “Nice work,” Nick said.

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

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

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

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

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

  “We're fine,” Grissom said.

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

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

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

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

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

  Both criminalists shook their heads.

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

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

  Forehead tensed, Grissom asked, “How old are you?”

  Neon buzzed, shorting out, like a bug zapper.

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

  “What's your name?”

  “John Pressley.”

  “Like Elvis?” Grissom asked.

  “Like Elvis but with two s's.”

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

  “Not very—couple years. It was an investment property.”

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

  Pressley gave him a dubious look. “Why?”

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

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

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

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

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

  “Address?”

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

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

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

  “Thanks,” Nick said.

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

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

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

  “She pans out,” Grissom said, “no hassles.”

  “Yeah . . . for how long?”

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

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