“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!”
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