by Donn Cortez
Ray pulled a sheet of paper out of the folder in front of him and held it out.
Catherine took it and studied it. It was a pencil sketch of Theria Kostapolis, looking out a barred window with a sad expression on her face. “The art therapy they were both doing?”
“For Bannister, it goes beyond that—he’s been an amateur artist all his life. The amazing thing is, this was done after he’d already lost control of the limb. Drawing is a complex skill, but it’s one Bannister’s been using for a long time—long enough that it’s apparently become second nature to him.”
“Okay, but how does this help us?”
Ray picked up a pen and gestured with it. “Bannister’s conscious mind might not be willing to help us. But another part of his brain might.”
Catherine and Ray stood at the foot of Bannister’s hospital bed. The back of the bed was elevated so that Bannister was sitting upright; he was immobilized at his chest, his waist, his wrists, and his ankles by thick leather straps. His right hand twitched and strained against the restraints, clenching and unclenching.
He stared at the CSIs with nothing but weariness on his face. “You’re wasting your time. I’m not going to tell you where she is.”
“Don’t worry about that, John,” said Ray. “We’d just like to perform some function tests on your hand. Nothing invasive or painful.”
Ray pulled over a rolling food table and positioned it so the tray was over Bannister’s upper thighs. A yellow sketchpad and a ballpoint pen lay on the tray. Ray picked up the pen and held it up with his left hand; with his right, he unbuckled the strap on Bannister’s twitching arm.
The hand made an immediate grab for the pen. Ray felt something as the hand clutched his own, some deep internal tremor generated by Bannister’s twitching muscles, almost like touching a wild animal; then it snatched the pen from his grasp.
Catherine turned off the lights. Then she switched on the overhead projector they’d brought with them, aimed at the blank whiteness of the far wall.
A picture of Theria Kostapolis appeared, but it only filled half the screen. The other half was taken up by a photo of a skull.
John Bannister stared at the screen, the look on his face now one of grief. He made no sound, but tears began to spill down his cheeks.
Ray joined Catherine by the projector. “I don’t know about this,” Catherine whispered. “It seems. . . morbid. Bordering on crazy.”
“Bordering on crazy is exactly where we are,” Ray whispered back. “But he’s on one side, and we’re on the other. Any chance Theria Kostapolis has depends on us getting a message across that border . . .”
The hand began to scribble.
Ray had explained his proposed method to Catherine beforehand: “Simply showing him a picture of Theria won’t be enough; that might only get us mimicry. We need him to generate an image that he associates with the last location he saw her in—what he thinks will be her final resting place. The simplest, most basic of concepts should produce the best results—and a skull is the universal symbol for death in all human cultures.”
Theria plus skull equals. . . what? Catherine thought. Will this work, or are we just going to get a drawing of a woman in a pirate outfit?
Bannister abruptly became aware of what they were trying to do. “No!” he shouted. He squeezed his eyes shut, then tried to disrupt what his hand was doing by violently shifting his body back and forth. The straps didn’t give him much leeway, but he didn’t stop trying; muscles in his neck stood out as he whipped his head back and forth. “No! You can’t! Stop it, damn you! I’ll rip you off with my own goddamn teeth!”
His hand continued to sketch. It drew with broad, bold strokes, without hesitation. Almost as if it had been waiting for its chance, thought Catherine. Almost as if it knew there wasn’t any time to waste.
Bannister’s thrashing became even more severe, his face a mottled red. Ray signaled for Catherine to turn the projector off and stepped forward. “That’s enough. John, calm down. I’m taking the pen and paper away. It’s over, John. It’s over.”
Bannister stopped thrashing and lay with his head to one side, breathing heavily. His hand, deprived of its instrument, scuttled around the surface of the table like a crab trying to escape.
“You bastards,” Bannister groaned. “You bastards.”
“We’re leaving now, John.” Ray grabbed the arm and rebuckled it into the restraint. “Try to rest.”
Outside in the corridor, Ray showed Catherine what John Bannister’s hand had drawn: a rough sketch of the “Welcome to Las Vegas” sign.
“Not ‘follow the signs,’ ” said Catherine. “Just follow the sign.”
23
THE LAST TIME NICK STOKES had talked to Emma Fynell, he’d asked her to send him the pictures she’d taken of the flaming dirigible. Her nails were still the same glossy black with inset rhinestones, but she was dressed much more conservatively now in a dark blue business suit, black pumps, and a matching handbag. She smiled at Nick from the other side of the interview table in the crime lab and said, “Nice to see you, Mr. Stokes. You need to borrow my phone again?”
Nick smiled back. “No, I need to talk to you about Andolph Dell.”
“What would you like to know?”
“I understand you and he are involved.”
“If you’re trying to ask me out, that’s the wrong way to do it.”
“I’m flattered, but I’m not trying to ask you out. I’m trying to figure out the nature of your relationship.”
She leaned back in her chair. “Well, if you reach any kind of understanding, let me know. I’ve been trying to do the same thing myself for the last six months.”
“Things not going smoothly?”
“What does this have to do with anything?”
“Someone seems to be targeting Mr. Dell’s casino. You made a threat along those lines not too long ago.”
“I make all kinds of threats. Sometimes I even follow through—other times, I forgive and forget.”
“And this time?”
She shrugged. “We’re back together, at the moment.”
“So you’ve canceled your plans for a rival casino?”
“Call it a gesture of reconciliation.”
Nick frowned. “That seems. . . kind of out of proportion, don’t you think? I mean, you’re talking about a project worth tens of millions of dollars.”
She studied him for a second before replying. “Do you know who played at my sixteenth birthday party? The Rolling Stones. I’m not sure how many cars I own, but it’s more than a dozen. I once lost a necklace worth more than most people’s houses in the cushions of my couch—one of my couches, in one of my living rooms, in one of my houses. And I didn’t care. So, out of proportion? I no longer have any idea what that word even means.”
Nick blinked. “Okay, then. Thank you for coming in.”
“My pleasure. That, at least, is a principle I thoroughly understand.”
* * *
“Well, so much for that,” said Greg. He and Nick were commiserating in the break room. “Emma Fynell’s story checks out. She divested herself completely from the project a few months ago—it’s been stalled ever since.”
“Plus it makes no sense for her to be involved, anyway,” said Nick, stirring his coffee. “She was at the party, remember? No need for a human cannonball—she could have just told the doorman to let the nurse and her boyfriend in herself.”
“Yeah, I guess so. So what’s that leave us?”
Nick took a sip of his coffee. “Still waiting on DNA results for the strongman. I guess we could pull in the veterinarian for a reinterview, but I doubt if it’ll do any good.”
“Hey, guys,” said Sara, walking up. “Anything new?”
“Only the imminent failure of our careers,” said Greg gloomily.
“Never mind him,” said Nick. “How about you? How was your visit with the Red Godfather?”
She pulled up a chair and sat down. “Pointed
,” she said.
She related her conversation with Dyalov, including the game of darts. “Scary guy. I had no doubt he would have been just as willing to have those darts thrown at his hand as vice versa.”
“Did he let anything slip?” asked Greg.
Sara frowned. “You know, he seemed a little too flippant when I brought up the circus. Then he shifted gears and tried to make me believe that Russians in general were just naturally predisposed to crime because of living under the repression of communism. He saved the dart game for his big finish.”
“Trying to throw you off the trail?” asked Nick.
“Could be.” She shrugged. “Not a lot to go on, I know. Oh, and you know that oversize tattoo artist I mentioned? I finally ran down his alibi—it checks out. No way he could be the guy in the wheelchair.”
Greg sighed. “Great. Another dead end.”
“C’mon, guys,” said Nick. “Cheer up. Something’ll break.”
“It better,” said Greg.
Despite their misgivings, Nick, Sara, and Greg had no choice; in the absence of any evidence to the contrary, they had to give the Panhandle’s alternate chips a clean bill of health. Andolph Dell instituted an immediate swap, shutting down the casino for two hours while every chip on the casino floor was replaced. Customers holding chips were told they would have to exchange them before they could continue to play, though the casino would still cash any old chips left in circulation—after an inspection.
For the first few hours after the swap, everything went well.
Jim Brass stuck his head in the lab door. “Hey, Nick, Sara—you’re not gonna believe this.”
Sara looked up from the report she’d been reading. “What’s up?”
Nick swiveled on his lab chair, away from his workstation. “Hodges ask you for an ‘honest appraisal’ of a first draft of his memoirs? If so, now’s a good time to develop a spontaneous case of dyslexia.”
“He did,” said Brass, “but I turned him down on the grounds that I hate seeing a grown man cry. No, this is more in the realm of the implausible than the unfathomable. A guy just walked into the Panhandle and tried to cash ten thousand dollars’ worth of chips.”
“Which set?” asked Sara.
“The new ones. But get this—when they try to scan the chips, there’s no signal. Nada, nothing, zip. They look authentic, but the RFID chip is completely inoperative in each and every one. Security called us, and we have him in custody. Three guesses what his favorite James Bond movie is—and it ain’t Moonraker.”
“From Russia with Love?” said Nick.
“Da, comrade. But apparently without any sense.”
“Can we talk to him?” asked Sara.
“Sure. But I get the feeling you’ll be the ones doing all the talking.”
Ilya Khavin didn’t look much like a Russian gangster. He was short, with curly black hair, a prominent nose, and a perpetually mild expression on his face. He was dressed like a tourist—Hard Rock Casino T-shirt, baggy orange shorts, tennis shoes without socks.
Nick and Sara stared at him from the other side of the interview table. He gazed back, unperturbed.
“Mr. Khavin,” Sara said. “We understand you tried to pass some bad chips today.”
Khavin shook his head and looked mildly apologetic. “This is all just a misunderstanding. Those chips are perfectly good.”
“No, they’re not,” said Nick. “They’re fakes.”
“No, no, they’re just new. Those—what are they called, radio chips?—inside must not be working right.”
Nick smiled. “You seem pretty knowledgeable about the subject.”
Khavin shrugged. “I guess. It’s not exactly a secret.”
“Not exactly,” said Sara. “Tell me, Mr. Khavin, where did you get those chips?”
“At the casino, of course.”
“Uh-huh,” said Nick. “They don’t have any record of you making such a purchase. The thing about RFID chips is, you know who has what at any given time. You never bought any chips from the casino.”
“Like I said, they must be malfunctioning. This is all just some kind of computer glitch.”
“I see,” said Sara. “A programming error, some sort of fault in the hotel’s database.”
Nick nodded. “Maybe even a flaw in the chips themselves. Could be they’re broadcasting on the wrong frequency or something.”
Khavin nodded back. “Sure. Technology breaks down all the time. Especially when it’s new.”
“Right,” said Sara. “Lucky for you, we’re pretty good at diagnosing problems like that. Aren’t we, Nick?”
“Practically experts. In fact, we took a very, very close look at those casino tokens of yours, Mr. Khavin, and you’re absolutely right; there’s something wrong with the RFID chips. It’s kind of technical—I don’t know how well versed you are in electronic engineering—but we’ll do our best to explain it to you. Sara?”
“They’re not there,” said Sara.
Khavin blinked. Mildly.
“I’m sorry,” said Nick. “Are we going too fast for you? Not there is a technical term meaning missing. Absent. The opposite of there.”
“I’ve always liked existence-challenged,” said Sara.
“Too politically correct for me,” said Nick.
“Somebody must have sold me some bogus chips,” said Khavin.
“Possibly,” said Sara. “Or maybe you made them yourself. Either way, trying to pass them off as the real thing is definitely illegal.”
“How was I supposed to know they weren’t the real thing?” said Khavin. “It’s not like you can tell just by looking.”
“True,” admitted Nick.
“Which is what puzzles us,” said Sara. “How can someone with a bunch of counterfeit chips be so confident that he tries to pass ten thousand dollars’ worth at one go, but be so clueless he doesn’t know the most important component is missing?”
“Yeah, it’s really bugging us,” said Nick. “I mean, I’ve met some pretty dumb criminals in my day, but man, this is epic. Like trying-to-rob-a-bank-with-a-banana kind of epic.”
“I think,” said Khavin, “I would like to talk to my lawyer now.”
“In your position?” said Sara. “Yeah, so would I.”
* * *
Wendy Simms, DNA tech for the CSI lab, was not having a good day.
She’d started her shift by being late, because the battery in her car had just enough juice to generate a few loud clicks from the starter before expiring. Then she’d spilled coffee all over her lab coat. Finally, Hodges kept badgering her for her review of the autobiography he’d been working on—Hodges, the Early Years—and she’d been trying to avoid him ever since she’d finished the first two chapters.
But they worked in the same lab, so that was pretty much impossible. And Hodges was nothing if not persistent.
“So,” he said, materializing behind her so abruptly she jumped, “what did you think of the earthworm story?”
“I . . .”
“You must have gotten that far. You’ve had the manuscript for two weeks, and it’s in the first chapter.”
“Yes, I’ve gotten that far.” She smiled at him, then looked away. “It was. . . unusual.”
“Well, of course it was unusual. That’s why I included it. What I want to know is, was it entertaining? Did it hold your attention?”
“Entertaining? I. . . guess you could describe it that way.”
Hodges frowned. “Look, I asked for your feedback because I value your honest opinion. I’m not thin-skinned; feel free to be as brutal in your appraisal as necessary. I won’t be offended.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Okay. Well, the earthworm story was. . . kind of disgusting.”
“I see.” Hodges crossed his arms.
“Especially your description of the smell.”
“I was trying to be evocative.”
“You succeeded. I could practically smell the
m rotting in the sun.”
He nodded. “The stench was quite remarkable. I could never play in that sandbox again, you know.”
“I can understand why.” She paused. “Did you really collect that many? It seems a little obsessive.”
Hodges smiled. “It had just rained, and there were earthworms everywhere. I’d read about earthworm farms—though I was a little unclear on the details—so I thought I’d start my own. My sandbox seemed like a logical location.”
“Except they were earthworms, not sandworms.”
“Well, it’s easy to say that now, from the heights of experience. In any case, that was one of my early forays into science; I thought including it would give readers some insight into how I became the man I am today.”
“Hodges, you killed more than a thousand worms. Throw in some anecdotes of bed wetting and fire setting, and you’ll have your readers convinced you were a serial killer in training, not a scientist.”
Hodges tapped his chin with a forefinger. “Ah. You haven’t gotten to chapter four, then?”
“What?”
“Never mind. It’s all there in the text—I really should be careful with spoilers.”
Greg walked in. “Hey, guys.”
Wendy turned quickly. “Greg! Glad you’re here.”
“Oh? Any reason in particular, or just general Greg-gladness?”
“I just finished running the DNA samples you got me from Bronislav Alexandrei and compared them against the epithelials you found on the bandages from the penthouse.”
“And?”
“No match. But when I ran the samples through CODIS, I got something strange from the epithelials.” She picked up a printout and handed it to him.
Greg scanned it and frowned. “The identity of the donor is classified?”
“By the CIA, no less.”
Hodges cleared his throat. “So your suspect is—what? A government agent?”
“Looks like,” said Greg. “But which government?”
