Brass said, “You've been doing pretty well with it tonight.”
“Numbers, names, that sort of thing, I'm hopeless. So I just wrote the PIN on the card. You know, to this day, I can't remember my social security number.”
Grissom had to wonder if that was because he'd had more than one.
“Then you forgot to report the card's loss,” Brass said.
“Yes—precisely. What a fool.” Hyde put his hands behind his neck, elbows winged out, as he leaned back, clearly enjoying himself.
Brass flipped a notebook page. “Let's talk about before you moved here, five years ago.”
“Let's.”
“Where did you live before you moved to Henderson?”
“So many places.”
“For instance.”
“Coral Gables, Florida . . . Rochester, Minnesota . . . Moscow, Idaho—I even lived in Angola, Indiana, once upon a time.”
“Let's talk about Idaho—when did you live there?”
“During college. More years ago than I would like to admit.”
Grissom figured there was a lot this guy wouldn't like to admit.
Brass was asking, “So, you went to the University of Idaho?”
Hyde nodded. “Graduated with a degree in English.” He removed his hands from behind his head and gestured to the posters. “For all the good it's done me.”
“You seem to have done all right for yourself,” Brass commented.
“ ‘Education,’ ” Grissom said, “ ‘is an admirable thing.’ ”
“ ‘But it is well,’ ” Hyde said, picking up where the criminalist left off, “ ‘to remember from time to time that nothing that is worth knowing can be taught.’ ”
“Oscar Wilde,” Grissom said, trading a tiny smile with Hyde.
“Speaking of education,” Brass said, unimpressed, “can you explain why the University of Idaho has never heard of Barry Hyde?”
He seemed surprised. “No, I can't. I suppose it's possible they've lost my transcript. It has, after all, been quite a few years . . . and a lot of these institutions, when they switched over to computerized systems, well . . . I must have gotten lost in the technological shuffle.”
Brass asked, “Is there anyone at the university you knew back then we could talk to now?”
“You must be kidding. My old college chums?”
“Yeah—let's start with ‘chums.’ ”
“I have no idea. I haven't been back since I graduated. You might find this hard to believe, but I was painfully shy and kept to myself.”
“And instructors?”
Hyde mulled that over momentarily. “I don't know if they are still there, but Christopher Groves and Allen Bridges in the English department might remember me.”
Though not one to make assumptions, Grissom felt sure these were the names of two deceased faculty members.
Brass, jotting the names on his pad, glanced at Grissom. “You got anything else, Gil?”
“Couple questions,” he said, lightly. “Were you in the service, Mr. Hyde?”
“The United States Army, Mr. Grissom—why?”
“I was wondering where you were stationed.” Not missing a beat, Hyde said, “I received basic training at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, advanced training in communications at Fort Hood, Texas, and then spent nine months at Ansbach, Germany.”
“It's odd,” Grissom said, “that your doctor's report says that you've never been overseas.”
Hyde's eyes narrowed. “Do you make a habit out of invading the privacy of upstanding citizens, Mr. Grissom?”
“Not upstanding citizens, no.”
A sneer replaced the smirk. “Well, in that case, you must have stumbled across the records of a different Barry Hyde.” He glanced at his watch—a Rolex—and said, “Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me—while talking with you has been more interesting than I could ever have hoped, it's time to close . . . this conversation, and my store.”
He rose, held open the door for them and they went out into the store, where he wordlessly led them to the front door—Warrick was gone, the cashier closing out the register. This door Hyde held open for them, also, nodding, smiling.
Grissom turned to him. “See you soon, Mr. Hyde.”
Hyde laughed—once; there was something private about it. “I doubt that very much, Mr. Grissom.” He went back inside and locked the door. They watched as he took the cash drawer from Sapphire and retired to the back of the store.
“What did he mean?” Brass asked. “We got a flight risk here?”
“Maybe.”
“Cocky son of a bitch.”
They found Warrick sitting behind the wheel of the Tahoe. “I got chased out,” he said. “Any luck?”
“He was less than forthcoming,” Grissom said.
Brass snorted. “That's being generous. What did you learn, Brown?”
“Once you were in back, I showed my ID to Sapphire and Ronnie. They were pretty cooperative—both said Hyde's been here all night, since just after four. Of course when Ronnie went out for pizza, around nine—that left Hyde in the back office, and Sapphire up in the cashier's slot, a post she couldn't leave. They ate carry-out pizza when Ronnie got back, and that's about it.”
“Actually,” Grissom said, “Hyde ate salad. No cheese, just veggies . . . Which may break this case wide open.”
“Huh?” Brass said, blinking.
Getting it, Warrick was grinning. “We'd be shit out of luck, if Hyde was in on that pepperoni pizza.”
Brass was lost. “What are you guys talking about?”
Warrick cackled and said, “No animal DNA in salad.”
“Meet you at the Dumpster,” Grissom said to Warrick, and headed to the back of the building.
17
IN THE LAYOUT ROOM, GRISSOM HAD ARRAYED VARIOUS crime scene photos—of the mummy case, at left, and the Dingelmann shooting, at right—on two large adjacent bulletin boards. He had sent Nick to round everybody up, and Catherine—sipping coffee and eating a vending-machine Danish—was at one of the tables. Nick was already back, sitting next to her, sipping a Diet Coke. Along the periphery, blank computer monitor screens stared at them accusingly—as if it was time to put these cases to bed.
Grissom agreed.
Warrick stumbled in, a coffee in one hand, his other rubbing his face; then the hand dropped away and a tired and puffy set of features revealed themselves, including bloodshot, obviously bleary eyes. “So, boss—what's up?”
Looking equally exhausted, Sara tumbled in on Warrick's heels. She carried a pint of orange juice and half a bagel with cream cheese.
Grissom filled everybody in on anything they might have missed, and Nick had the first question.
Nick said, “Okay, Marge Kostichek hires the Deuce to remove Malachy Fortunato, for reasons that are clear, by now, even to those among us who tend to lag behind. . . .”
“Ease up on yourself, Nick,” Sara said.
Nick grinned at her, but the grin was gone by the time he posed the rest of his question to Grissom: “But why kill the lawyer—Dingelmann?”
“Because,” Grissom said, “Hyde recognized him.”
“Pardon?” Nick said.
“If you study the casino tape, the body language is unmistakable—Dingelmann recognizes the man at the poker machine . . . and the man at the poker machine recognizes him.”
“Not a contract hit, you're saying,” Catherine said. “Something more spontaneous.”
“No, no,” Nick said, shaking his head, grinning in disagreement, “silenced automatic, two shots in the back of the head? The Deuce is a hired assassin. . . . He kills for money.”
“That's one reason he kills,” Grissom said, patient. “But why did he murder Marge Kostichek?”
Sara shrugged. “Every cornered animal protects itself.”
“Exactly,” Grissom said, pointing a finger at her. “Put the pieces together, boys and girls. We have a hired killer with a very distinct signature.”
N
ods all around.
Grissom continued: “A signature that hasn't been seen for over five years.”
“Not,” Warrick said, “since he moved to Henderson.”
“So he is retired,” Sara said.
Nick was shaking his head again. “But what about the traveling?”
“For now, never mind that,” Grissom said. “Trips or not, five years ago he came here to make a new life—to live under a new name. The contrived background Warrick and Sara uncovered confirms that.”
“And Philip Dingelmann,” Catherine said, “was a face out of his old life . . . the mob connections he's turned his back on, for whatever reason.”
Grissom smiled. “That's a big ‘bingo.’ For five years, Hyde's been living quietly in Henderson, running his video store, at an apparent loss, and his only recreation, that we know of anyway, is to come in, twice a week, and gamble a little.”
“At the Beachcomber,” Warrick said. “At off times. So nobody from his past life might recognize him.”
“Right,” Grissom said, pleased.
“That's crazy,” Nick said, not at all on board. “Even with its family-values facelift, Vegas still has mob roots—plus people from all over the country come here, vacationing. Why would somebody who's tucked himself out of the way, in Henderson, Nevada, come to Sin City twice a week?”
“He can't help himself, man,” Warrick said. “He's an adrenaline junkie. All those years doing what he did? Couple days a week, he gets a little taste, gets that buzz that lets him survive in the straight world. Gambling does that for some people.”
Grissom said, “It's no accident that more wanted felons are arrested every year at McCarren than at any other airport in the country.”
Warrick nodded. “Even in this Disneyland-style Vegas, it's still the place where you can find the biggest rush in the shortest amount of time.”
“So,” Catherine said, almost but not quite buying it, “the mob lawyer just happened to walk into the casino where Hyde was gambling?”
Grissom pointed to a photo of the dead lawyer in the Beachcomber hallway. “Dingelmann was a registered guest at the hotel, yes. Catching some R and R before an upcoming big trial.”
“Coincidence?” Sara asked, almost teasingly.
“Circumstance,” Grissom said. “There's a difference.”
Nick, still the most skeptical of them, said, “And Hyde just happened to have a gun and a silencer with him? Give me a break.”
Grissom came over to where Nick and Catherine sat; perched on the edge of the table. “Look at when Hyde gambled. He always picked a time when business was slow. He knew someday, somebody might recognize him . . . and he'd have to be prepared. That's why he carried the gun and the noise suppresser.”
“Hell,” Warrick said. “Maybe that was a part of the buzz.”
“Tell us, Grissom,” Catherine said. “You can see this, can't you? Make us see it.”
And he did.
The .25 automatic, in the holster at the small of his back, brought a feeling of security . . . like that credit card commercial—never leave home without it. On several occasions, he'd almost made it out the front door without snugging the pistol in place, and each time, almost as if the gun called to him, he'd turned around and picked it up.
You just never knew, maybe today would be the day he'd need it. He'd survived this long by being cautious—never scared, just cautious. Dangerous situations required care, planning, consistency. A careful man could survive almost anything.
Over the years, he'd done a number of jobs near Vegas, and he'd always loved the town—Vegas getaways had been something he looked forward to. Now, Vegas getaways from Henderson were twice-a-week oases in a humdrum existence. He derived great pleasure coming to the football field–sized casino at the Beachcomber, but he felt secure: at five-thirty on a Monday morning, only a couple hundred players would be trying their luck.
In a room this size, this time of day, the gamblers were spread out, making the casino seem nearly deserted. Tourists—the few that ventured this far off the Strip—wouldn't be here at this hour unless they were lost or drunk. These were the hardcores, mostly locals, who never gave him a second glance.
Occasionally, a bell would go off, a machine would ding ding ding, or he might hear a muffled whoop from the half-dozen schmucks gathered around the nearest craps table; but basically, the casino remained as quiet as a losing locker room. He might have preferred a little more action, more glitz, more glamour—but he still had that habit of caution even as he took risks.
He always played at this time of day, fewer people, less noise, hell, even the cocktail waitresses didn't bother him now that they knew him to be a recluse and a shitty tipper. He played on Mondays and Wednesdays, Senior Days at the Beachcomber, when a registered player's points would be multiplied by four.
Though only fifty, his ID claimed he was fifty-six, and the silver hair at his temples made it easier to sell the lie. Right now he had the slot card of a nonexistent registered player plugged into a poker machine closer to the lobby than he would have liked. Normally, he'd play further back in the casino, away from the lobby, but his luck had been bad, and a few months ago, this particular machine had been kind. So, he'd positioned himself here, facing the lobby (his shoulder turned away from the security camera, of course).
He punched the MAX bet button, dropping his running total from twenty-five to twenty. He'd started the session with two hundred quarters when he'd slipped a fifty into the machine only a half-hour earlier. Looking at his hand, he saw a pair of threes, one a diamond, the other a club, plus the six, nine, and jack of diamonds. Sucker bet, he told himself, even as he dropped the three of clubs and tried to fill the flush. He hit the DEAL button and was rewarded with the three of hearts. Naturally.
He cursed under his breath, bet five more quarters, and wondered if his luck could possibly get any worse. Over a month since he won any real money, and he wondered what the hell it would take to turn things around. He looked up to see one of last night's holdouts finally trudging toward the elevators, calling it a night. The guy wore a dark suit, his geometric-patterned tie loose at the neck, puffing like a tan flower from his chest.
The video poker hand came up: two kings, a jack, a queen, a seven. He kept the two kings, dropped the others.
When he saw the man's face, he knew his luck wouldn't be changing today, not for the better anyway. He fought the urge to duck under the machine, but it was too late, the suit looking right at him now, recognizing him—Dingelmann.
The lawyer. His lawyer, in another life. . . .
And right now the ever so cool-in-court counselor's eyes were growing wide in surprise and alarm.
Unconsciously, the player's hand moved toward the back of his slacks, under his lightweight sport coat. He stopped as the lawyer took off at a brisk pace, heading for the bank of elevators to the left and, no doubt, the phone that waited upstairs in his room.
Can't do him here, the player thought, way too fucking public. Be patient, patience is the key. He rose, took a step, the plastic chain attaching him to his player's card reining him in, drawing him back.
He pulled the card, and barely aware of it, looked down as the poker machine started burping out coins. He glanced at his hand, four kings. Damnit. Without another thought, he left the machine and followed Dingelmann. As they neared the elevators, the lawyer's pace quickened and a couple of night owls turned, trying to figure out if the guy was loony or just drunk.
The stalker kept his face blank, though his mind raced, nerve endings jangling, long-lost emotions roiling in his gut. The lawyer, almost running now, got to the elevators, punched the UP button repeatedly and just before the killer could get to him, a car came, Dingelmann entered, and the doors slid shut.
Pounding his fist on the door, he watched as the elevator indicator reported its rise to the second floor; he jabbed the UP button, as the indicator registered the third floor. A car stopped, its door sliding open, but before he stepp
ed on, he looked up at that indicator, which had paused at the fourth floor.
He jumped into the empty car and slapped the four button. By the second floor, beads of sweat were blossoming on his forehead and he was pacing like a caged animal. As the elevator passed the third floor, the pistol seemed to jump into his right hand, his left digging the noise suppresser out of the pocket of the linen sport coat. The door dinged at the fourth floor, and he stepped out, screwing the two pieces together.
He listened for a moment. He'd been up into the hotel a couple-of times before, with hookers, and he remembered that a steel-encased video camera hung high on the wall at the far end of the hall. The doors for each room were inset into tiny alcoves, making the hall appear deserted; but the Deuce knew better.
Moving quickly, keeping his head down (even though the camera was thirty yards down the hall), he went from door to door. Finally he found Dingelmann, frightened and fumbling with his key card at the door to room 410.
The Deuce pressed the silencer into the back of the lawyer's head and heard the man whimper. A squeeze of the trigger and a round rocketed into Dingelmann's skull, slamming him into the door, and he slumped, slid, to the floor—already dead.
Then, just to make sure, and out of ritual, he fired one more round into the lawyer's head.
A sound behind him—a yelp of surprise—prompted the Deuce to spin, bringing the pistol up as he did, never forgetting the eye of the security camera. Before him, a skinny, dark-haired waiter carrying a tray full of food gasped a second time as he dropped the tray. The metal plate covers and silverware clanged as they hit the floor, spaghetti exploding across the hallway.
Even before the clatter died away, he and the waiter took off running in opposite directions, the waiter toward the elevators, the Deuce directly at the video camera at the far end of the hall. As he took off, his right foot slipped in the lawyer's blood, and his feet nearly went out from under him. Regaining his balance, he flung himself down the hall, the blood smearing off with his first two steps.
As he sprinted he brought his arm up, destroying any chance the camera had of capturing his face on video. He shoved through the fire exit door into the stairwell and tore down the steps two at a time. As he rushed down, his mind worked over the details. Many things yet to be done.
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