Double Dealer ccsi-1

by Max Allan Collins

  Catherine seemed lost in thought; then she asked Nick, "Where's that letter now?"

  "On top of my desk-why?"

  She arched an eyebrow toward Nick, and Grissom noted it as well, as she said, "Remember the box of her husband's personal effects Mrs. Fortunato turned over to us?"

  "Of course," Nick said.

  Grissom was smiling.

  Catherine said, "One of the things in that box is a letter to her husband . . . from Joy Starr."

  Pleased, Grissom said, "This was the letter that made the police assume Fortunato and Joy Starr ran off together?"

  "Yes," Nick said. "Am I missing something?"

  "It'll come to you," Catherine said, mildly amused, her eyes alive with a fresh lead. "Get me your letter, I'll get mine, and meet me in the parking lot."

  Nick was lost. "The parking lot?"

  A slight grin tugged at a corner of Grissom's mouth. "I see where you're going, Catherine . . . nice thinking. But even if you're right, that won't completely settle the issue. Nick, where did you say that letter was postmarked?"

  "L.A. Within the past month."

  "I'll contact the California DMV," Grissom said. "Let's see what we can find out about Joy Petty. Then I'll call Jenny Northam and tell her you're on your way."

  "Jenny who?" Nick asked. "On our way where?"

  "Jenny's a forensic document examiner," Grissom said. "A fine one-she'll tell us whether or not 'Joy Petty' wrote both letters."

  "And if she didn't?" Nick asked.

  "Then," Catherine said, "the fun begins-let's get going."

  The bank air conditioner continued to work overtime and even the unflappable Warrick looked chilly after twenty minutes of waiting in Carrie Washington's office. The small talk had evaporated and the four of them sat in awkward silence.

  At last, the phone rang. Everyone jumped a little, the shrill sound serving as a release for the tension that had filled the room. Now, with the second ring, anticipation elbowed its way into the office.

  Carrie Washington picked up the phone. "Yes?" She listened, and scribbled notes. "Address? . . . Employment?" One last scribbled note, and she hung up.

  "Do you have something?" Conroy asked.

  "Yes. The customer in question is Barry Thomas Hyde. He lives in Henderson, at fifty-three Fresh Pond Court. Owns and manages a video rental store-A-to-Z Video-in the Pecos Legacy Center. That's a strip mall at twenty-five sixty-two Wigwam Parkway."

  Conroy wrote quick notes on the addresses; Warrick had them memorized already. He said, "Thank you, Ms. Washington."

  "Will there be anything else?"

  Conroy rose, and then so did Sara and Warrick. The homicide detective said, "I think we've got what we need."

  "We do what we can," Ms. Washington said, and something that had clearly been working on the woman finally emerged: "You said you were with homicide, Officer Conroy?"

  "That's right."

  "So this is a murder case."

  "It is."

  This seemed to impress the professional woman, and Warrick said, "That's why your help is so important. This involves a dangerous individual, still at large."

  "Anything to help," the banker said. "Anything."

  Anything with a warrant.

  Sara fought the urge to sprint from this building, to stand in the sun and, with luck, regain some of the feeling in her feet.

  "Holy shit," she said, once they were outside, "am I freezing."

  Conroy laughed lightly. "Then it wasn't just me-my teeth were chattering!"

  "That name and those addresses didn't warm you ladies up?" Warrick asked.

  "If it's not another dead end," Sara said, "I'll be warm and toasty."

  Warrick shrugged. "Let's go see."

  As they walked to the Tahoe, which was parked nearby, Sara said, "I'll bring Grissom up to speed," pulling out her cell phone with gunfighter aplomb.

  She got him at once, informed him they had a possible ID on the Deuce, filled him in on the details.

  "We'll try the house first," Grissom said. "Meet me there ASAP-I'll have Brass with me."

  "We already have Detective Conroy with us."

  "Good. If this is our man, he's a dangerous suspect."

  Sara said 'bye, hit END, and filled Warrick and Conroy in.

  "Anybody know Henderson very well?" Conroy asked, looking at the address.

  "Not really," Sara said.

  "Can't say I do," Warrick admitted. "We've worked a few crime scenes there. . . ."

  "Well, I don't really know where this address is," Conroy admitted, gesturing with her notepad.

  The absurdity of it hit them, and they laughed: three investigators and none of them knew how to find an address.

  Sara, giggling, said, "Maybe we better get some help from dispatch."

  "Just don't tell anybody," Conroy said.

  " 'Specially not Grissom," Warrick said.

  12

  JENNY NORTHAM SHOOK HER HEAD, HER LONG DARK HAIR bouncing gently, then she looked through the microscope one last time.

  "Well?" Catherine asked.

  "No fuckin' way," Jenny said, her voice deeper than would be expected for a woman her size-barely over five feet, weighing in at maybe a hundred pounds. "Shit, guys, this isn't even close."

  Jenny's office nestled in the corner of the second floor of one of the oldest downtown buildings just off Fremont Street. Tiny and slightly seedy, the office boasted apparent secondhand office furniture and carpeting dating to when the Rat Pack ruled the Strip. The back room, where Catherine and Nick had an audience with the sweet-looking, salty-speaking handwriting expert, was exactly the opposite.

  Cutting-edge equipment lined three walls with file cabinets and a drafting table butted against the other wall. Two huge tables topped with UV, fluorescent and incandescent lights stood in the middle of the room. Nick and Catherine sat on stools near the walls while Jenny Northam rode a wheeled stool, rolling from station to station around the room, like she was piloting a NASCAR stock car.

  "You're sure," Catherine said.

  "Is a bear Catholic? Does the Pope shit in the woods? Whoever wrote this letter . . ." She held up Joy Starr's vintage note to Malachy Fortunato. ". . . wasn't worried about being discovered. This can only loosely be termed a forgery-it's just some dumb shit signing this Joy Starr's name to the letter."

  Catherine frowned. "That's the only possibility?"

  "No-this letter . . ." The handwriting expert pointed to the letter taken at Marge Kostichek's house. ". . . could be the forgery. But any way you look at it, they weren't written by the same person."

  The two CSIs watched as Jenny dipped the letter into a series of chemical baths, then set it to one side to dry. She did the same thing with the original note to Fortunato.

  "While we're waiting," Jenny said, "let's compare the handwriting, using the two photocopies we made earlier."

  Catherine sat on one side of the handwriting expert, and Nick on the other, as Jenny read slowly aloud the letter to Fortunato:

  "My loving Mal,

  Im so happy that were finally going to getaway just the 2 of us.

  It will be great to be together forever. You are everything Ive always dreamed of. See you tonight.

  Love you for ever

  Joy"

  The new letter from Joy Petty read:

  "Dear Marge,

  Thanks for the great birthday card. I don't know why you keep sending me money, you know I make plenty. But you're sweet to do it. I hope you've been thinking about our invitation to come over and stay with us for a few weeks. The guy I been living with, Doug, could even drive over and pick you up so you don't have to take the bus. It would be great fun. Please come.

  Love, Joy"

  "She's older now," Nick said, "her handwriting may have changed."

  "Not this much," Jenny said. "Just not possible. Over the years our handwriting changes, granted. To varying degrees. But somebody's signature? That's something that people do not drastically chang
e."

  Jenny displayed the two letters side by side on the table. "Look at the capital 'J' in 'Joy.' "

  They moved closer.

  "This new one, the Joy Petty letter, the 'J' is extremely cursive. She started at the line and made this huge fuckin' loop that goes over the top line, then the smaller bottom loop that's equally full of itself. See how it goes down, almost all the way to the next line? This is somebody who craves attention-wants to stand out in the crowd."

  Catherine gestured to the older document. "Tell us about the person behind this other signature."

  Jenny pointed. "This is a scrawl. Almost looks like a kid did it. Very straight, more like printing than script. No way this is the same person. I don't give a shit how many years you put between 'em."

  She went on to point out the capital "M" in "Marge," which was round and smooth, " Demonstrating the same pressure all the way through." The "M" in "Mal," however, was pointed, extra pressure at the joints of the lines.

  Jenny shook her head. "Definitely two different writers."

  Catherine smiled at Nick; Nick smiled at Catherine.

  "The documents should be dry now," Jenny said, heading back over to the original documents. "Let's have a look." The expert positioned herself on one side of the table, Nick on the other. Catherine studied the photocopies a few more seconds, then followed, joining Nick on his side of the table.

  "You dipped this in Ninhydrin?" Nick asked pointing at the note.

  Shaking her head, Jenny said, "Nope-that's the old mojo."

  Catherine said, "I remember reading in the Fortunato file that the lab tried that, back in '85, when they first found the note . . . but came up empty."

  "Yes," Jenny said. "Though it was good in its day, even then Ninhydrin wasn't always successful. It worked well on amino acids, left on paper by people who touched it. But this new stuff, physical developer, it's the shit-works on salts left behind."

  Nick was nodding, remembering something from a forensics journal article he'd read a while back. "This is the stuff the British came up with, right?"

  "Right," Jenny said.

  "Oh yeah," Catherine said, "finds way more prints than Ninhydrin."

  "We've got something," Jenny said. "Look here."

  The expert held up the original note: a black print, the side of the author's palm presumably, and several fingerprints in various places, dotted the page.

  Jenny grinned. "Looks like the writer tried to wipe the paper clean of prints. These shit-for-brains never seem to grasp fingerprints are ninety-nine-and-a-half percent water. They're in the document, not on it."

  Fewer fingerprints showed up on the new letter, but there were some to play with.

  "Your fingerprint tech'll tell you these two prints don't match," Jenny predicted. "The letters were written by different people, and the fingerprints will prove it, as well as the handwriting differences. Additionally, the writing style-the amount of schooling indicated-also suggests two authors; but that's a more subjective call."

  Catherine looked at Nick. "So, now what are you thinking?"

  "We already knew that Fortunato didn't run off with the stripper."

  "Right."

  "We also believe that she's still alive and well and living in L.A. as Joy Petty."

  Nodding, Catherine said, "Yes, and we should know more about that when we get back and talk to Grissom."

  Nick got up, pacing slowly. "So we have a forged note from Joy to our victim, right around the time of his murder . . . but why? Why was such a note written?"

  "Whoever hired the killing planted it, obviously," Catherine said. "And it worked-Fortunato's disappearance was dismissed as just another guy with a seven-year itch that got scratched by running off with a younger woman."

  Nick stopped pacing, spread his hands. "So-mob guys hire the killing, and plant the note . . . or have it planted."

  Catherine shook her head. "Doesn't make any sense."

  "Why not?"

  "Okay, look at it from the mob end of the telescope. You don't want anybody to know you killed this guy-you don't even want it officially known the welsher is dead. You instruct your hired assassin to hide the body where it won't be found for years, if at all, then you write this letter to make it appear Fortunato left town with his girlfriend."

  "Yeah, right," Nick said. "That all hangs together."

  Catherine smiled. "Does it? If you do all that, why do you allow your assassin to sign the body? Give it the old trademark double tap?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because if the body is found, you know damn well it's going to look like a mob hit to the cops. What did it look like to us?"

  "But the Deuce, he's a mob hitter . . ."

  "No, Nicky," Catherine said. "He's a freelancer. His best customers are organized crime types; but they're not necessarily his only customers."

  Nick was seeing it now, shaking his head, disappointed in himself. "Grissom always says, 'assume nothing,' and what did we do? Assumed it was the mob."

  "If it wasn't," Catherine said, "it was a perfect set-up for anybody who wanted Fortunato dead, for personal reasons or business or any motive. Already owing bookies out east, Fortunato was a sure bet to have a contract put out on him, if the mobbed-up casino owners knew he was embezzling from the casino. Instant blame."

  "If somebody else hired the Deuce-who was it?"

  "Ever notice every time we answer one question on this case," Catherine said, "we end up asking ourselves another, brand-new one?" She turned to the document examiner. "Jenny, how much writing would you need to find a match on these two letters?"

  Jenny's answer was automatic. "When you get a suspect, don't take a handwriting sample-that's for shit. Get me a sample they've already written, grocery list, anything."

  "And if we can't?"

  "Then, what the hell-get a new sample." The petite woman shrugged. "There are some things you can't disguise."

  "How big a sample?" Catherine asked.

  "Couple of sentences, at least. More is better."

  "Usually is," Nick said.

  "Thanks, Jenny," Catherine said. "You're the best."

  "Not hardly," she said. "My father was."

  Catherine nodded. "We'll be back when we've got something."

  Jenny returned to some waiting work. "I'll be here till five, and you can page me after that-long as you don't need me tonight."

  "What happened to your fabled 'twenty-four-hour service'?" Catherine kidded her.

  "Don't break my balls," Jenny said. "I got choir practice."

  Catherine guided the wide-eyed Nick out of the office, and, as they drove back down the Strip, Nicky behind the wheel, Catherine punched a speed-dial number on her cell phone. It only rang once.

  "O'Riley," came the gruff voice.

  "Is Marge Kostichek still with you?"

  "Yep."

  "No change in her story?"

  "Nope."

  "You gonna cut her loose?"

  "Yep."

  "She's in the room with you right now, isn't she?"

  "Yep."

  ". . . Okay, we're going to get you a court order for nontestimonial identification."

  "Say what?"

  "A writing sample and fingerprints."

  "Oh! All right."

  Catherine heard Marge Kostichek's voice in the background. "Aren't you the gabby one?"

  Catherine said, "I'll call Grissom-you should have the paper you need in less than an hour."

  "I like the sound of this." He disconnected.

  So did she; then she called Grissom, who said he'd take care of the court order and get it to O'Riley.

  "Have either of you slept?" he asked.

  "Earlier this year," she said, with a sigh. "Haven't eaten in recent memory, either."

  "Well, stop and eat, at least. We're going to get sloppy if we don't watch ourselves. . . . I'll handle things here for a while."

  "Thanks. We'll be back soon."

  She hit END, leaned back in the seat; she
wished Grissom hadn't reminded her how tired she was.

  "What did he say?" Nick asked.

  "That we should eat."

  "Good. I haven't eaten since I got a bear claw out of the vending machine about twelve hours ago."

  The Harley-Davidson Cafe looked like a cross between a fifties style diner, a pub, and a high-end heavy metal club. Though she'd been past it many times, Catherine had never eaten here before-she seldom stopped at tourist places like this. She made a decent living, but not enough to regularly afford eight-dollar hamburgers, and still raise a daughter.

  An American flag made out of three-inch anchor chain filled one wall, all the way up to the thirty-foot ceiling, well above the open second-floor game-room. A conveyer running through the restaurant, the bar, the gift shop out front and up to the second floor, carried twenty antique Harleys in a constant parade.

  While waiting for Nick's lemonade and Catherine's iced tea, they talked the case.

  "All right," Catherine said, "if the mob didn't kill Fortunato, who did?"

  He thought about that. "How about the wife? Always the first place to look. And he was fooling around on her, after all."

  "I don't know," Catherine said. "She seems pretty genuinely distraught, finally finding out he's dead . . . but her anger for Joy sure hasn't ebbed, over the passage of time."

  "What about her boyfriend?"

  The waitress set their drinks in front of them, took their order, and Catherine suffered through the requisite flirting ("Aikake" was a "beautiful name," according to Nick, and "Hawaiian," according to the waitress).

  "You ready now?" Catherine asked as the waitress hip-swayed away.

  "Sorry. The boyfriend?"

  "Gerry Hoskins. Annie Fortunato claims he wasn't even in the picture when Malachy disappeared, but no one's checked the story."

  "Someone should."

  "That's why God made the likes of Jim Brass."

  "I was wondering. Any other ideas?"

  "How about Marge Kostichek?"

  He shrugged. "She lied about knowing Joy, yeah-but what the hell motive could she have?"

  Catherine sighed. "I don't know. How's that for an answer?"

  Nick talked up over Steppenwolf. "What about Joy herself? She disappeared the same day-and until we found that letter we had no idea she was alive."

  "But the letter from fifteen years ago probably isn't from Joy-why hire somebody killed, and then plant a forged letter that would've been more convincing had you written it yourself?"