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 stepped 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.
At the first floor exit he stopped. He unscrewed the silencer, slipped it into a pocket. The pistol went into another and he checked himself carefully for splatter. He found a small scarlet blob on the toe of his right running shoe. Using a handkerchief from his pants’ pocket, he daubed the spot away, got his breathing under control, stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow with his left hand, and finally took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out through his mouth. He was ready. He eased the door open and stepped out.
Across the lobby, at the front desk, he saw the waiter screaming at a female desk clerk, and pointing in the general direction of the elevators.
The Deuce, deciding to avoid the lobby as much as possible, turned into the casino, walked past a scruffy-looking blonde girl, probably all of twenty-one, who now occupied his poker machine. The tray was still full of coins from his four kings. Silently cursing, he hoped she pissed it all away.
Avoiding security cameras altogether, often hugging walls, he kept moving, walking not running, not too slow, not too fast, then hustled through the door into the back parking lot, to his car. No rush now—he eased the car out of the parking lot, jogging from Atlantic to Wengert, then finally onto Eastern for the ride home.
The Deuce was free—the lawyer was dead—and Barry Hyde could only wonder whether today had been an example of good luck or bad.
Nick asked, “Then why aren’t we busting the guy now?”
“On what evidence?” Grissom asked.
“The videotape,” Sara said.
“Can’t get a positive ID from that.”
Warrick asked, “What about the ATM transaction?”
“Hyde claims his card was stolen. Brass is checking into that now.”
“We can match his fingerprints to the shell casings,” Catherine offered.
“That’s a big one,” Grissom said, nodding. “But we have no murder weapon. And nothing that ties Hyde to the murders of Fortunato and Kostichek except the signature.”
Greg Sanders leaned in. “Excuse me—oh, Catherine?”
“Yeah?”
“Thought you might like to know—your cigarette butt from Evidence matches the blood you took from the fence.”
“All right!” she said, jumping to her feet. All around the room, smiles and nods appeared.
Greg wandered on in, eyes dancing, his grin wide even for him. “That ‘ASAP’ enough for you?”
“Absolutely,” she said, sitting back down.
“But like they say at the end of the infomercials,” the lab tech teased, holding up a forefinger, “…that’s not all!”
Everyone looked at him.
Enjoying center stage, Sanders said to Grissom, “Thanks for the take-out salad.”
Willing to play along—for a moment—Grissom asked, “You enjoyed it?”
“I think you will—the saliva matches the DNA from the blood and the cigarette.”
“Salad?” Sara asked.
“From the Dumpste
r behind A-to-Z Video,” Grissom said. “Hyde even invited me to help myself to his garbage.”
“Nice guy,” Sara said.
Catherine smiled. “What CSI would pass up an all-you-can-eat buffet?”
“Well, I stepped up,” Grissom said, “with Warrick’s help—and now we have Barry Hyde’s DNA at the scene of the Fortunato killing…ten years before he claims he ever came to Vegas…and we’ve got that same DNA from the fence he vaulted, behind Marge Kostichek’s house.”
“What more do we need?” Nick asked.
Grissom said, “Right now, nothing—we’ve got what we need for the warrant that’ll get us even more evidence.”
“At his residence,” Nick said, finally a believer.
“And the video store,” Catherine added.
“I’ll call Brass,” Grissom said. “With any luck, we’ll have a warrant in half an hour…Nick, Sara, Warrick—get your equipment together, full search. We’re rolling in five minutes.”
They all seemed to launch at once. The exhaustion left their faces, and they moved now with enthusiasm and a grim sense of purpose. Grissom watched, a faint smile not softening the hardness of his eyes.
As he was heading out, Warrick turned to Grissom and the two men’s eyes locked. “Gris, Barry can run…”
“But he can’t hide,” Grissom said.
18
Maintaining a low profile in this high-rent neighborhood would have been damn-near impossible; so Jim Brass didn’t even try. In the early morning sunshine, dew still dappling, the cramped court looked like the Circus Circus parking lot: the two Tahoes and Brass’s Taurus were parked in front of the Hyde residence, and two Henderson PD black-and-whites were pulled into the driveway across the street (Brass had not been about to repeat his faux pas with the local police, not only alerting them but calling them in).
Neighbors—some in bathrobes, others fully dressed—came out to gawk as the CSI group, led by Grissom and Brass, stepped from their vehicles, a little army removing their sunglasses and snapping on latex gloves. For July, the morning was surprisingly cool, and Warrick and Nick wore dark windbreakers labelled FORENSICS—this was in part psychological, a way to inform the onlookers that this was serious business, and they should keep back and stay away. As the team approached the house, each CSI carried his or her own equipment, each already handed a specific assignment for the scene by Supervisor Grissom.
Warrick would track down the shoes, Nick dust for prints, and Sara handle the camera work. Catherine would join Grissom as the designated explorers, their job to search out the more obscure places, seeking the more elusive clues. Brass—the only one not in latex gloves—would take care of Hyde.
As they marched up the sidewalk to the front door, an aura of anxiety burbled beneath the professionalism.
“Think he might start something?” Nick asked, obviously remembering the close call at the Kostichek house.
At Nick’s side, Warrick shook his head, perhaps too casually. “Why should he? Sucker thinks he’s Superman. We ain’t laid a glove on him yet.”
Brass heard this exchange, and basically agreed with Warrick—but just the same, he approached the door cautiously. He held the warrant in his left hand, his jacket open so that he could easily reach the holstered pistol on his hip. Behind him, Grissom motioned his crew—their hands filled with field kits and other equipment, looking like unwanted relatives showing up for a long stay—away from the door, corralling them in front of the two-car garage.
With a glance over his shoulder, Brass ascertained the CSIs were out of the line of fire; then he slowly moved forward. The front door—recessed between the living room on the left and the garage on the right—reminded the detective of the room doors at the Beachcomber, providing a funny little resonance, and a problem: if something went wrong, only Grissom—barely visible, peering around the corner like a curious child—would see what happened.
Nick’s words of apprehension playing like a tape loop in his brain—“Think he might try something?”—Brass, within the alcove-like recession, stepped to the right of the door, took a deep breath, let it out…and knocked, hard and insistently.
Nothing.
He waited…
…he pressed the doorbell…
…and still nothing.
Glancing back at Grissom—who gave him a questioning look—Brass shrugged, turned back, and knocked once more.
Still no response.
Grissom moved carefully forward to join the homicide cop, the rest of the crew trailing behind.
“I don’t think our boy’s home,” Brass said.
Grissom reached out and, with a gentle latex touch, turned the knob.
The door swung slowly open, in creaking invitation, Brass and Grissom both signaling for the group to get out of the potential line of fire.
“Open?” Brass said to Grissom. “He left it open?”
“Cat and mouse,” Grissom said. “That’s our man’s favorite game…. ”
They listened, Brass straining to hear the slightest sound, the faintest hint of life—Grissom was doing the same.
Long moments later, they traded eyebrow shrugs, signifying neither had heard anything, except the sounds of a suburban home—refrigerator whir, air-conditioning rush, ticking clocks. Drawing his pistol, Brass moved forward into the foyer of the modern, spare, open house—lots of bare wood and stucco plaster and stonework.
Grissom said to Warrick, “Tell those uniformed officers to watch our back. Then join us inside.”
“On it,” Warrick said, and trotted toward Henderson’s finest.
Then Grissom and the other CSIs joined Brass, inside.
A wide staircase to a second-floor landing loomed before them; hallways parallel to the stairway were on its either side, leading to the back of the house—kitchen and family room, maybe. At right was the door to the attached garage, and at left a doorless doorway opened onto the living room.
The loudest thing in the quiet residence was Brass’s own slow breathing, and the shoes of the team screaking on the hardwood floor.
In a loud voice—startling a couple of the CSIs—Brass called out, “Barry Hyde—this is Captain James Brass, Las Vegas PD! We have a search warrant for your home and its contents!…Sir, if you are here, please make yourself known to us, now!”
The words rang a bit, caught by the stairwell, but then…
“Simon and Garfunkle,” Sara said.
Brass looked at her.
“Sounds of silence,” the CSI replied, with a shrug.
Brass eased forward and turned left into the living room, his pistol leveled—a big, open, cold room with a picture window, a central metal fireplace, and spare Southwestern touches, including a Georgia O’Keefe cow-skull print over a rust-color two-seater sofa.
“Clear!” Brass called, when he came back into the foyer, Warrick had already joined Nick, Sara, Catherine and Grissom, who were fanning out—firearms in hand, an unusual procedure for these crime scene investigators, but the precaution was vital.
Opening the door to the attached garage, Nick flipped the light switch and went in, pistol at the ready. After a quick look around, he yelled, “Clear.”
They went from room to room on the first floor—Brass, Nick, and Warrick—checking each one. Grissom and Catherine—weapons in their latexed hands—stood at the bottom of the open stairway, to make sure Hyde didn’t surprise them from above.
When Brass, Nick and Warrick returned to the foyer, they all shook their heads—nobody downstairs. Brass then led the way up the stairs, with the same combo of guns and caution, and they inspected the second floor the same way.
“It’s all clear,” Brass said, returning to the top of the stairs, holstering his handgun. “Barry Hyde has left the building.”
“Okay,” Grissom said, obviously pleased to be putting the gun away, “let’s get to work. You all know what to do.”
Sara unpacked her camera, Nick his fingerprint kit and they went to work as a team. Catherin
e and Warrick disappeared into other parts of the house.
Adrenaline still pumped through Brass as he came down the stairs. “Couldn’t the son of a bitch have done us the courtesy of just opening the door and getting indignant about his rights and his goddamn privacy?”
“You’re just longing again,” Grissom said, “for those days when you could shoot a perp and then say ‘freeze.’ ”
“That approach has its merits.”
“So is he not home…or is he gone?”
“I said he might be a flight risk.”
Grissom nodded, starting up the steps. “I’ll check his clothes, his toiletries—see if there are any suitcases in the house.”
Brass moved into the living room, where Sara was snapping photos that would comprise a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the room, working from that central fireplace. As she moved on to another room, Brass poked around. The front wall consisted of one huge mullioned window looking out onto the street, and that lone sapling in the front yard.
A television the size of a compact car filled most of the west wall to Brass’s left. A set of shelves next to the TV was filled with stereo equipment, several VCRs, a DVD player, and a couple of electronic components Brass didn’t even recognize. On shelves over the television sat a collection of DVD movies, most of which Brass had never heard of. I have to get out more, he thought.
Opposite the entertainment center sat a huge green leather couch and a matching recliner squatted along the shorter southern wall. Next to the recliner and at the far end of the couch were oak end tables supporting lighter-green modernistic table lamps with soft white shades. A matching oak coffee table, low-slung in front of the couch, displayed a scattering of magazines with subscription stickers to BARRY HYDE and a few stacks of opened mail and loose papers.
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