She slowed, turning to see Sara hustle up, a report in hand. “If you're headed for DNA, I may have something for you.”
As they walked, Sara handed her the report, saying, “I told Greg I'd give this to you. It's the DNA results from your Fortunato evidence.”
Catherine took it, but asked, “What's the news?”
“Blood was the mummy's. Cigarette taken from the Fortunato backyard sixteen years ago contains DNA that doesn't match either the late husband or his living wife.”
Catherine smiled wickedly. “Could be the Deuce's.”
Sara flashed her cute gap-toothed grin. “Could be. But why are we still headed to the lab?”
“ 'Cause this isn't what I was going there for.”
Quickly Catherine filled Sara in, slightly out of order: telling her Marge Kostichek had been murdered, apparently by the Deuce, then about the tight scrape she and Nick had been in. And finally she brought Sara up to speed on Joy Petty and the Kostichek woman hiring the murder of the mummy.
Sara, clipping along beside her, said, “And here I thought sure Fortunato was a mob hit.”
“We all did,” Catherine said, with a sour smirk. “Grissom told us not to assume anything, yet we all bit. Maybe that's why this woman is dead now.”
“And I take it you've already dropped off the Kostichek crime scene evidence to Greg. . . .”
“Yes, and maybe we'll match up that ancient cigarette DNA—when I chased the son of a bitch tonight, he cut himself on a chain link fence.”
Sara, mimicking the milk ad, asked, “Got blood?”
“Oh yeah,” Catherine said, and strode into the lab, Sara right behind her.
Sanders almost jumped off his stool. “God! Don't you guys ever knock?”
Catherine leaned on his counter. “That murder crime scene stuff I dropped off? You said you'd get to it ASAP.”
“And I will.”
She just looked at him. Then she said, “Maybe it's time to define ‘ASAP.’ ”
The normally cheerful lab rat scowled at the two women. “Listen, I'm so far behind it'll be, like, Monday before I can get to it. I got overload from Days to deal with—day shift has, like, two murders, a rape and—”
“Days?” Catherine asked. “You're giving priority to dayshift?”
His brow lifted and half his mouth smirked. “You ever had Conrad Ecklie on your ass?”
“I'm not interested in your personal life, Greg.”
He lowered himself over a microscope. “I'll laugh next week, when I have the time.”
Leaning near the door, Sara said, “Speaking of time, Cath—while you're waiting for that DNA evidence, we could check the phone records around here . . . for personal calls.”
Greg glanced up.
“You know,” Sara continued, with a shrug, “as responsible public servants, we need to make sure the taxpayers are being well-served.”
Sanders stroked his chin as if a beard were covering his baby face. “For two such dedicated public servants, I might be able to squeeze it in.”
“Thanks, Greg—you're the best.”
The Taurus and Tahoe pulled into the parking lot and glided side by side into stalls in front of the video store. Warrick climbed down from the driver's seat of the Tahoe, and Brass got out of the Taurus, where Grissom had ridden in the front passenger seat. The CSI supervisor—after taking a long, deep breath, letting it out the same way—followed, joining the two men on the sidewalk.
The normally cool Warrick seemed just a little nervous to Grissom; the lanky man was bobbing on his feet, as he looked in the storefront window and said, “The cashier tonight must be Sapphire—that means the assistant manager on duty is Ronnie. These people have never seen us before, Gris—how do you want to play it?”
It only took Grissom a moment to decide. “Jim and I'll head straight to the back room—you stay out front and keep an eye on the cashier.”
A nod. “You got it.”
“Gil,” Brass said, his face creased with worry, “I've got to tell you, I think this is the wrong play. There's something going on here that we don't understand, yet. You really think sticking our hand into a blind hole makes sense? We could pull out a bloody stump.”
“Hyde has to be somewhere,” Grissom said. “He's not at his residence—this is his business. What else do you suggest?”
Without waiting for an answer, Grissom pushed open the glass door and went inside.
“May I help you, sir?” a cheerful voice asked from the cashier's island.
Moving into the brightly illuminated world of shelved videos and movie posters, Grissom said, “Just looking,” and kept moving toward the back of the store. He felt Brass behind him, maybe two steps.
Warrick strolled in a few seconds behind them, and walked straight to the cashier.
“Hi,” he said in a loud voice. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Have you got the director's cut of Manhunter?”
As Warrick and the cashier chatted, Brass said to Grissom, “You're the evidence guy, for Christ's sake! What can we do here that will hold up in court?”
Still ignoring his colleague, Grissom pushed open the swinging door, despite the PRIVATE sign tacked to it, and almost immediately a figure from inside blocked the way: a kid not any older than the last one they'd met here.
“Hey! Can't you read?”
As the kid pointed to the PRIVATE sign, Grissom took a step back and appraised the youth, who wore a blue polo shirt with A-to-Z stitched over the breast, a pudgy kid with dirt-brown hair and dirt-brown eyes set deep inside a pale face.
“You can't come back here!”
The kid said this loudly—too loudly, as if it were for someone's benefit other than Grissom and Brass.
Grissom leaned in, almost nose to nose with the kid. “We're looking for your boss—Barry Hyde.”
“Uh, uh . . .”
From inside the office, a voice called, “I'm Barry Hyde! . . . Let the gentlemen in, Ronnie.”
Shaken, Ronnie stepped aside, and Grissom stepped into the small office, Brass following glumly.
Getting up from a desk at the right, where a security monitor revealed four angles of the store (including Warrick and the cashier talking), the man rose to a slim six-foot-one or so. That thin build was deceptively muscular, however. The man—who wore no name tag—was in a black polo shirt and black jeans—wardrobe, Grissom noted, not far removed from his own. He was in his fifties, but youthfully so.
And the man's right hand was wrapped in a large gauze bandage.
“I'm Gil Grissom from—”
“Do you always barge into private places unannounced, Mr. Grissom?” Hyde asked, superficially pleasant, but with an edge.
“From the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau,” Grissom finished. “This is Captain Brass. We'd like to ask you a few questions.”
“We should have knocked,” Brass mumbled. “Sorry.”
“Apology noted,” Hyde said. “And I always like to cooperate with law enforcement, but I'm sure you'll understand if I ask see to your credentials.”
“Certainly,” Brass said, and they complied with the request.
Hyde studied Brass's badge and Grissom's picture ID a few beats longer than necessary, Grissom thought; a smirk lurked at the corner of Hyde's mouth. This man was not afraid of them, or thrown by their presence: he seemed, if anything, amused!
Handing than credentials back, Hyde gave them a curt nod. “Fine, gentlemen. Now. What may I do for you? And let me assure you that any adult material we rent is clearly within community standards.”
Grissom smiled, just a little. “Mr. Hyde, I notice you're wearing a bandage on your right hand—it looks fresh. Would you mind telling us how you injured yourself?”
The mouth smirked, but the forehead tensed. “Is there a . . . context to these questions?”
Brass said, “Could you please just answer.”
Hyde's smirk evolved into a smile consisting of small even teeth�
��something vaguely animal-like about them. He held up the hand in front of him, the bandage like a badge of honor. “Shelving units. Ronnie . . . that's the young man you were intimidating just now . . . Ronnie and I were rearranging some shelves and one of them cut my hand.”
“Could I take a look at the injury?”
“Why, are you a doctor?”
“Well, yes . . . in a way.”
“I'm going to say no,” Hyde said, firm but not unfriendly. “I only just now got the bleeding stopped, and got it properly bandaged. I'm not going to undress the wound so you can look at it, for some unspoken reason. Out of the question, gentlemen.”
Grissom fought the irritation rising in him. It must have shown, because Brass jumped in with his own line of questioning. “Mr. Hyde, can you tell us where you were, earlier this evening?”
“I could, but you're going to have to be frank with me, gentlemen, if you want my cooperation.”
Grissom laid it out: “This is a murder investigation.”
That might have given the average person pause, but Hyde snapped right back: “And that gives you the right to be rude?”
Grissom said nothing.
“Please, Mr. Hyde,” Brass said, reasonably, “tell us where you were earlier this evening.”
“Any particular time?”
Brass shrugged. “Let's say since five.”
“A.M. or P.M.?” Hyde asked, his eyes on Grissom, that tiny half-smirk tugging at his cheek.
“Make it P.M.,” Brass said, and took a small notebook from his pocket.
“All right.” Now Hyde shrugged. “I've been here at the store.”
“Since five?”
“Earlier than that even,” said Hyde. “Since around four.”
Their earlier visit to A-to-Z had been mid-afternoon; had they just missed their man?
“Witnesses to that effect?” Brass asked casually.
“Ronnie and Sapphire. They both came in at four today.”
“Isn't that early?” Grissom asked. “I mean, you open at ten, and go to midnight. I thought the shifts would be divided in half.”
A smile split the pockmarked face, a stab at pretended cordiality. “That would make sense, wouldn't it? But today Patrick and Sue had plans—they're something of an item . . . not ideal, a workplace romance, but it happens, and I just hate to be a hard-ass boss.”
Pothead Patrick had indeed said good things about their boss; but Grissom didn't mention the other assistant manager—Warrick had negotiated the kid's silence, earlier. Or was there a surveillance tape that Hyde had looked at? Had the killer been reviewing security tapes, too?
Hyde was saying, “The lovebirds left an hour early, and Sapphire and Ronnie came in to cover.”
Brass asked, “Did your other two employees see you, today?”
Hyde shook his head. “No, they left right at four, and I wandered in a few minutes after.”
“Did you know about their plans?”
“They had permission. Like I said, I try to be a good boss to these kids.”
Grissom found himself fascinated by this specimen: if Hyde was the Deuce, Grissom was looking at a classic sociopath. If they could bust this guy, and convict him, he would make a great subject for one of Grissom's lectures.
Brass was asking the guy, “Did you go out to eat or anything? Run errands maybe?”
“No, it's just as I've told you.” His tone was patronizing, as if Brass were a child.
Hyde continued: “I was here all evening. Ask my kids, they'll tell you. Oh, Ronnie did go out and get Italian—pizza for them, salad for me. I believe it was about nine o'clock. The three of us ate.” An eyebrow arched. “The pizza box, and the little styrofoam salad box, are in the Dumpster out back . . . if you would care for further confirmation.”
Grissom had rarely encountered this degree of smugness in a murder suspect before.
Brass asked, “Where did Ronnie go to get this Italian?”
“Godfather's . . . it's a bit of a drive, but that's Ronnie's favorite pizza.”
Brass wrote that down, dutifully.
Grissom asked, “You didn't eat any pizza?”
“No. It was sausage and pepperoni—I'm a vegetarian.”
“Oh. Health reasons, Mr. Hyde, or moral issues?”
“Both. I try to stay fit . . . and of course I take a stand against wanton slaughter.”
Grissom admired Hyde's ability to say that with a straight face. “What's your stand on dairy items?”
“What does that have to do with a murder investigation?”
Grissom shrugged. “I'm just wondering. I have an interest in nutrition. Mind humoring me?”
“Not at all—I'm lactose-intolerant. No cheese on my salad—just good crisp healthy veggies. But I do like some sting in my dressing.”
Grissom said, “Thank you.”
Brass gave Grissom a sideways you're-as-nuts-as-this-guy-is look, and returned to his questioning. “When was the first time you visited Las Vegas, Mr. Hyde? Prior to moving here, I mean.”
Hyde considered that. “Six years ago, I believe—just a month or so before I moved here. I fell in love with the place—was here for a video store owners convention—and moved out here.”
“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?”
Griss
om 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.”
Double Dealer Page 20
