Mortal Wounds

by Max Allan Collins

  “Never before that?”

  “Never. I don’t have any particular interest in gambling. It was the climate—the beauty of the desert sunsets. That sort of thing.”

  “All right,” Brass said, making a note. “Do you know a woman named Marge Kostichek?”

  No hesitation. “No—should I?”

  “How about a Philip Dingelmann?”

  “No.”

  “Malachy Fortunato?”

  “No…and I have to say, I’m growing weary of this game. Who are these people, and why would you think that I’d know them?”

  Brass smiled—as enigmatic as a Sphinx. “Why, they’re our murder victims, Mr. Hyde.”

  The smirk lost its sarcasm; the eyes hardened. “And you are suggesting I knew these people?”

  Brass said, “We’re asking.”

  Hyde seemed to get irritated, now; but Grissom wondered if it was just another chess move, more cat and mouse.

  “You think I’ve killed these people, don’t you? What preposterous, presumptuous…this interview is over, gentlemen.”

  “All right,” Brass said.

  But Hyde went on: “I’ve tried to assist you, cooperate with you despite your rudeness, and now you repay my good citizenship by accusing me of murder.”

  Good citizenship? Grissom thought.

  “And within the walls of my own establishment, no less.” He went to the door, pushed it open, and waited for them to leave.

  Brass began to move, but Grissom gently held him back, by the arm. To Hyde, Grissom said, “Talking here at your…establishment…might be more comfortable for you.”

  “Than what? The police station?”

  Neither man said a word.

  Releasing the door, Hyde returned to his desk, sat, and said, “All right—continue your interview.” He gestured to the telephone nearby. “But if you accuse me of murder, if you even imply it, I’ll end this interview, phone my attorney, and file charges for harassment.”

  Grissom noted that the security cam system did not include the office or back room.

  “You mentioned gambling, Mr. Hyde,” Brass said. “So you don’t gamble?”

  “I said I had no great interest in it. I live at the doorstep of the gambling capital of the United States, if not the free world. Of course I’ve tried my luck from time to time.”

  “Ever at the Beachcomber?”

  Grissom could sense the wheels turning behind the controlled if smug facade; but Hyde gave up nothing.

  He said, “I’ve been there. I’ve been to most of the casinos on and off the Strip, for dining and entertainment, if not always gaming. I’ve lived here for over five years.”

  “We’ll get to that,” Brass said. “You ever use the ATM machine at the Beachcomber?”

  Grissom thought he saw Hyde give the slightest flinch. It happened so fast he couldn’t be sure….

  Hyde said, “I don’t believe so.”

  “But you’re not sure?”

  “No, uh, yes, I’m sure.”

  That was the closest to flustered Hyde had been, so far.

  Brass said, “There’s a security tape that shows you using the ATM machine there almost seven weeks ago.”

  A disbelieving smile twisted the thin lips. “Shows me? I hardly think so…. ” This was almost an admission of his avoidance of the casino security cameras, and Hyde quickly amplified: “I’ve never used my ATM card…. ”

  After his voice trailed off, Hyde seemed lost in thought.

  “What?” Grissom asked.

  Nodding, Hyde said, “You must have seen the man who stole it.”

  Brass cocked his head as if his hearing were poor. “How is that?”

  “On the tape. The casino security tape—you must have seen the individual who stole my ATM card.”

  Brass sighed. “You’re telling us someone stole your ATM card?”

  Hyde nodded. “Yes, around the first of May.”

  “And when did you report the theft?”

  “Just now, I’m afraid,” Hyde said, with what seemed an embarrassed shake of his head. “Right after the card was stolen, I got called out of town on business and then I simply forgot about it.”

  Grissom said, “You forgot your ATM card was stolen?”

  Brass didn’t wait for a response, asking, “How was it stolen?”

  “I don’t really know.”

  Grissom felt the irritation rising again; the man’s contempt for them was incredible. “You don’t know,” he said.

  Hyde shrugged. “One day I went to use it…in my wallet…and it was just gone.”

  “Then you lost it,” Brass said, apparently trying not to lose it himself. “Mr. Hyde, that’s not the same thing as having it stolen.”

  Hyde looked at them with undisguised disdain. “I never found it, and the bank never called to say that they had it. So it must have been stolen…. I probably left it in a machine when I used it, and someone else simply took it.”

  Now it was Grissom’s turn to feel smug. “How do you suppose this guy got your PIN then?”

  Hyde’s smile managed to turn even more condescending. “The number was written on the back of the card, at the end of the signature box. I’m afraid I have a terrible memory.”

  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.”

  Nods 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 car
ried 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).