With a shrug, O'Riley smirked, said, “You think? That old broad wouldn't give a straight answer to a Jeopardy! question.”
“I don't think, Sarge—I know.”
The creased face under the trim crew cut tightened with interest. “How?”
“Her mail. You see all those piles here and there and everywhere?”
“She's a pack rat—so what?”
“So back on that writing table, on top of one of those piles, was a letter from a ‘Joy Petty.’ What do you suppose the odds are that she knows a Joy Petty who isn't also the Joy Starr whose real name is Monica Petty?”
O'Riley's eyebrows had climbed. “I think the odds are we're goin' right back up there, right now.”
“Can we do that?”
“Was the letter out in plain sight?”
“Oh yeah.”
“Then watch and learn, bucko.”
O'Riley was out of the SUV and going back up the sidewalk before Nick could pull the keys from the ignition. The CSI trotted to catch up, the pissed-off detective already ringing the bell, then throwing open the screen door and knocking on the inside door before Nick even got to his side. Just then, Marge Kostichek jerked the door open.
“What now?” she bellowed. “We already gave!”
“That's what you think, lady.” Getting right in her face, O'Riley bellowed back, “Why the hell did you lie to us?”
She backed up, inadvertently making room for both men to re-enter the house.
O'Riley glared at her, saying to Nick. “Show me.”
Pulling on a latex glove even as he moved, Nick went to the writing desk and picked up the top letter on the stack of mail.
“Hey,” she shouted, “you can't do that! That's private property! Where's your warrant?”
“Evidence in plain sight, ma'am,” O'Riley said. “We don't need a warrant.”
Nick came over to the hair-curled harridan and held up the letter from Joy Petty for her to see. “You want to explain this to us?”
The old woman took a step back, then stumbled over to her Barcalounger and sat heavily down, with an inadvertant whoopee-cushion effect. It might have been funny if she hadn't been crying.
Sara Sidle and ponytailed Detective Erin Conroy caught up with Warrick in the lobby of the Wells Fargo branch on South Nellis Boulevard. The air conditioning seemed to be set just below freezing; even though it was July in the desert, the tellers all wore sweaters.
“I've got another shot at getting our guy,” Warrick said.
Professional in a white pants suit, Conroy lifted an eyebrow. “Is this going to be like the mailbox place?”
He looked for evidence of sarcasm in her voice and didn't find any. “I hope not, but who knows.”
“Nice piece of work, Warrick,” Sara said, meaning the ATM machine.
“Thanks. I haven't been this lucky in a casino in a long time.”
A plumpish woman of forty sat behind the receptionist's desk talking on the phone. When they approached, she held up a finger: she'd be with them momentarily. . . . At least that's what Sara hoped she meant. In her lightweight short-sleeve top, Sara felt like she was standing in a meat locker.
Finally, the receptionist hung up the phone and turned to Warrick as if the two women weren't even there.
But it was Erin Conroy who held up her badge, and said, “We need to speak to whoever is in charge of ATM transactions.”
The woman checked a list on the pullout shelf of her desk. “That would be Ms. Washington.” She picked up the phone, pressed four numbers and said, “Ms. Washington, there are three police officers here to speak to you.” She listened for a moment, hung up, and said to Warrick, “She'll be right with you.”
Sara was seething but she didn't bother to correct the receptionist's description of all three of them as police officers.
They'd waited less than a minute before Sara heard the staccato rhythm of high heels on the tile floor to her right and behind her. Turning, she saw a woman in a conservative black suit approaching—with expertly coifed black hair, jade eyes, and a narrow, porcelain face. The woman held out her hand to Conroy and offered all three a wide smile. “Good morning—I'm Carrie Washington. May I help you, Officers?”
Conroy showed her credentials and shook the woman's hand. “I'm from Homicide, and Warrick Brown and Sara Sidle, here, are from the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. We need to talk to you about one of your ATM customers.”
“Fine. Quite a crowd of you, for one customer.”
“Overlapping interests in our investigation,” Conroy said.
Ms. Washington clearly didn't understand a word of that—Sara barely did herself—but the woman, crisply cooperative, said, “Won't you follow me to my office?”
In the smallish suite at the far end of a wide hallway off the lobby, Carrie Washington offered them seats in the three chairs that faced her large oak desk. A computer sat on the credenza next to it, a potted plant perched in the corner, and two picture frames were placed at the edge of her neat desk, facing away from them.
“Now,” she said, steepling her fingers. “How may I help you?”
Conroy nodded to Warrick to take the lead. He did: “We need to know the name of one of your ATM customers.”
Ms. Washington's expression conveyed her discomfort. “I'm afraid that would be—”
“It's quite legal,” the homicide detective said, and withdrew the document from her shoulder-slung purse, and tossed the warrant onto the desk. “Judge Galvin has already authorized the action.”
The woman put on a pair of half-glasses, read the warrant. “Tell me what you need.”
“The ATM at the Beachcomber,” Warrick said, “that's yours?”
Ms. Washington frowned thoughtfully. “I can find out—but I assume you already know as much, or you wouldn't be here in such an impressive array.”
“It is your ATM,” Conroy said.
“Five weeks ago,” Warrick said, reading her the date from his notes, “your machine was accessed at five thirty-nine A.M. Can you tell me who did that?”
Typing the information into her computer, Ms. Washington said, “You're quite sure about the time?”
Warrick nodded. “Yes, ma'am.”
“This is going to take a few minutes.”
Conroy said, “That's fine. We'll wait.”
O'Riley sat across from Marge Kostichek at the plain wooden table in the center of the interrogation room. She was no longer a sarcastic handful, rather a morose, monosyllabic interrogation subject.
Also in the cubicle were two other chairs, one on each side of the table, a digital video camera trained on the woman and an audio tape for backup on the table. A large wall mirror—nobody was kidding anybody—was really a window with one-way glass, on the other side of which were Grissom, Catherine, and Nick, who had already filled his boss and co-worker in on why he and O'Riley thought it best to bring the former bar owner in for more questioning.
The room they were in was small with no furniture. They stood there watching the interview in the other room.
“He's not getting anywhere with her,” Grissom said.
“Maybe there's nowhere to get to,” Catherine offered.
“No way,” Nick said. “She knows something. That letter can't be a coincidence.”
“Please,” Grissom said. “Not the ‘c’ word.”
Catherine seemed lost in thought; then she asked Nick, “Where's that letter now?”
“On top of my desk—why?”
She arched an eyebrow toward Nick, and Grissom noted it as well, as she said, “Remember the box of her husband's personal effects Mrs. Fortunato turned over to us?”
“Of course,” Nick said.
Grissom was smiling.
Catherine said, “One of the things in that box is a letter to her husband . . . from Joy Starr.”
Pleased, Grissom said, “This was the letter that made the police assume Fortunato and Joy Starr ran off together?”
“Yes,” Nic
k said. “Am I missing something?”
“It'll come to you,” Catherine said, mildly amused, her eyes alive with a fresh lead. “Get me your letter, I'll get mine, and meet me in the parking lot.”
Nick was lost. “The parking lot?”
A slight grin tugged at a corner of Grissom's mouth. “I see where you're going, Catherine . . . nice thinking. But even if you're right, that won't completely settle the issue. Nick, where did you say that letter was postmarked?”
“L.A. Within the past month.”
“I'll contact the California DMV,“ Grissom said. “Let's see what we can find out about Joy Petty. Then I'll call Jenny Northam and tell her you're on your way.”
“Jenny who?” Nick asked. “On our way where?”
“Jenny's a forensic document examiner,” Grissom said. “A fine one—she'll tell us whether or not ‘Joy Petty’ wrote both letters.”
“And if she didn't?” Nick asked.
“Then,” Catherine said, “the fun begins—let's get going.”
The bank air conditioner continued to work overtime and even the unflappable Warrick looked chilly after twenty minutes of waiting in Carrie Washington's office. The small talk had evaporated and the four of them sat in awkward silence.
At last, the phone rang. Everyone jumped a little, the shrill sound serving as a release for the tension that had filled the room. Now, with the second ring, anticipation elbowed its way into the office.
Carrie Washington picked up the phone. “Yes?” She listened, and scribbled notes. “Address? . . . Employment?” One last scribbled note, and she hung up.
“Do you have something?” Conroy asked.
“Yes. The customer in question is Barry Thomas Hyde. He lives in Henderson, at fifty-three Fresh Pond Court. Owns and manages a video rental store—A-to-Z Video—in the Pecos Legacy Center. That's a strip mall at twenty-five sixty-two Wigwam Parkway.”
Conroy wrote quick notes on the addresses; Warrick had them memorized already. He said, “Thank you, Ms. Washington.”
“Will there be anything else?”
Conroy rose, and then so did Sara and Warrick. The homicide detective said, “I think we've got what we need.”
“We do what we can,” Ms. Washington said, and something that had clearly been working on the woman finally emerged: “You said you were with homicide, Officer Conroy?”
“That's right.”
“So this is a murder case.”
“It is.”
This seemed to impress the professional woman, and Warrick said, “That's why your help is so important. This involves a dangerous individual, still at large.”
“Anything to help,” the banker said. “Anything.”
Anything with a warrant.
Sara fought the urge to sprint from this building, to stand in the sun and, with luck, regain some of the feeling in her feet.
“Holy shit,” she said, once they were outside, “am I freezing.”
Conroy laughed lightly. “Then it wasn't just me—my teeth were chattering!”
“That name and those addresses didn't warm you ladies up?” Warrick asked.
“If it's not another dead end,” Sara said, “I'll be warm and toasty.”
Warrick shrugged. “Let's go see.”
As they walked to the Tahoe, which was parked nearby, Sara said, “I'll bring Grissom up to speed,” pulling out her cell phone with gunfighter aplomb.
She got him at once, informed him they had a possible ID on the Deuce, filled him in on the details.
“We'll try the house first,” Grissom said. “Meet me there ASAP—I'll have Brass with me.”
“We already have Detective Conroy with us.”
“Good. If this is our man, he's a dangerous suspect.”
Sara said 'bye, hit END, and filled Warrick and Conroy in.
“Anybody know Henderson very well?” Conroy asked, looking at the address.
“Not really,” Sara said.
“Can't say I do,” Warrick admitted. “We've worked a few crime scenes there. . . .”
“Well, I don't really know where this address is,” Conroy admitted, gesturing with her notepad.
The absurdity of it hit them, and they laughed: three investigators and none of them knew how to find an address.
Sara, giggling, said, “Maybe we better get some help from dispatch.”
“Just don't tell anybody,” Conroy said.
“ 'Specially not Grissom,” Warrick said.
12
JENNY NORTHAM SHOOK HER HEAD, HER LONG DARK HAIR bouncing gently, then she looked through the microscope one last time.
“Well?” Catherine asked.
“No fuckin' way,” Jenny said, her voice deeper than would be expected for a woman her size—barely over five feet, weighing in at maybe a hundred pounds. “Shit, guys, this isn't even close.”
Jenny's office nestled in the corner of the second floor of one of the oldest downtown buildings just off Fremont Street. Tiny and slightly seedy, the office boasted apparent secondhand office furniture and carpeting dating to when the Rat Pack ruled the Strip. The back room, where Catherine and Nick had an audience with the sweet-looking, salty-speaking handwriting expert, was exactly the opposite.
Cutting-edge equipment lined three walls with file cabinets and a drafting table butted against the other wall. Two huge tables topped with UV, fluorescent and incandescent lights stood in the middle of the room. Nick and Catherine sat on stools near the walls while Jenny Northam rode a wheeled stool, rolling from station to station around the room, like she was piloting a NASCAR stock car.
“You're sure,” Catherine said.
“Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Whoever wrote this letter . . .” She held up Joy Starr's vintage note to Malachy Fortunato. “. . . wasn't worried about being discovered. This can only loosely be termed a forgery—it's just some dumb shit signing this Joy Starr's name to the letter.”
Catherine frowned. “That's the only possibility?”
“No—this letter . . .” The handwriting expert pointed to the letter taken at Marge Kostichek's house. “. . . could be the forgery. But any way you look at it, they weren't written by the same person.”
The two CSIs watched as Jenny dipped the letter into a series of chemical baths, then set it to one side to dry. She did the same thing with the original note to Fortunato.
“While we're waiting,” Jenny said, “let's compare the handwriting, using the two photocopies we made earlier.”
Catherine sat on one side of the handwriting expert, and Nick on the other, as Jenny read slowly aloud the letter to Fortunato:
“My loving Mal,
Im so happy that were finally going to getaway just the 2 of us.
It will be great to be together forever. You are everything Ive always dreamed of. See you tonight.
Love you for ever
Joy”
The new letter from Joy Petty read:
“Dear Marge,
Thanks for the great birthday card. I don't know why you keep sending me money, you know I make plenty. But you're sweet to do it. I hope you've been thinking about our invitation to come over and stay with us for a few weeks. The guy I been living with, Doug, could even drive over and pick you up so you don't have to take the bus. It would be great fun. Please come.
Love, Joy”
“She's older now,” Nick said, “her handwriting may have changed.”
“Not this much,” Jenny said. “Just not possible. Over the years our handwriting changes, granted. To varying degrees. But somebody's signature? That's something that people do not drastically change.”
Jenny displayed the two letters side by side on the table. “Look at the capital ‘J’ in ‘Joy.’ ”
They moved closer.
“This new one, the Joy Petty letter, the ‘J’ is extremely cursive. She started at the line and made this huge fuckin' loop that goes over the top line, then the smaller bottom loop that's equally full of itse
lf. See how it goes down, almost all the way to the next line? This is somebody who craves attention—wants to stand out in the crowd.”
Catherine gestured to the older document. “Tell us about the person behind this other signature.”
Jenny pointed. “This is a scrawl. Almost looks like a kid did it. Very straight, more like printing than script. No way this is the same person. I don't give a shit how many years you put between 'em.”
She went on to point out the capital “M” in “Marge,” which was round and smooth, “ Demonstrating the same pressure all the way through.” The “M” in “Mal,” however, was pointed, extra pressure at the joints of the lines.
Jenny shook her head. “Definitely two different writers.”
Catherine smiled at Nick; Nick smiled at Catherine.
“The documents should be dry now,” Jenny said, heading back over to the original documents. “Let's have a look.” The expert positioned herself on one side of the table, Nick on the other. Catherine studied the photocopies a few more seconds, then followed, joining Nick on his side of the table.
“You dipped this in Ninhydrin?” Nick asked pointing at the note.
Shaking her head, Jenny said, “Nope—that's the old mojo.”
Catherine said, “I remember reading in the Fortunato file that the lab tried that, back in '85, when they first found the note . . . but came up empty.”
“Yes,” Jenny said. “Though it was good in its day, even then Ninhydrin wasn't always successful. It worked well on amino acids, left on paper by people who touched it. But this new stuff, physical developer, it's the shit—works on salts left behind.”
Nick was nodding, remembering something from a forensics journal article he'd read a while back. “This is the stuff the British came up with, right?”
“Right,” Jenny said.
“Oh yeah,” Catherine said, “finds way more prints than Ninhydrin.”
“We've got something,” Jenny said. “Look here.”
The expert held up the original note: a black print, the side of the author's palm presumably, and several fingerprints in various places, dotted the page.
Jenny grinned. “Looks like the writer tried to wipe the paper clean of prints. These shit-for-brains never seem to grasp fingerprints are ninety-nine-and-a-half percent water. They're in the document, not on it.”
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