Frankly, Catherine said, seeing no reason to withhold the information, I was hoping to find the shell casings from the bullets that killed your husband.

  She frowned in alarm. You think he was shot …here?

  Blood was found.

  Yes, but … I didn’t hear any shots, and I was a light sleeper. Hell, I still am.

  The killer could have used a noise suppressera silencer… . Are you okay with me being so blunt?

  Hell yes. I had my cry. Go on.

  Anyway, the gun barrel we found with your husband’s body belonged to an automatic. That means shell casings, which had to go somewhere.

  Mrs. Fortunato nodded, apparently seeing the logic of that. Wellyou havin’ any luck?

  Catherine sighed. No, not reallyand it would have been a lucky break if we had. She took another big drink of the lemonade. I’m going over it one more time, before I hang it up.

  Mrs. Fortunato was studying Catherine. You know, I want to thank you for what you’ve done.

  Catherine didn’t know how to react. You’re welcome, Mrs. Fortunato … but I haven’t really done anything yet.

  The woman sipped at her lemonade, then puffed on her ever-present cigarette, and a tear trickled downher cheek. Yes, you did. I know Malachy wasn’t perfect, but he was … The tears overtook her. She stubbed out the cigarette on the ground.

  Catherine put her arm around the woman.

  Shit, I had my cry.

  It’s all right, Catherine said, it’s all right.

  Don’t get me wrongI love Gerry!

  I know. It shows.

  Something wistful, even youthful touched the woman’s well-grooved face. But, Mal, he was the love of my life. You only have oneand sometimes they’re even sonuvabitches … you know what I mean?

  Catherine smiled a little. I’m afraid so.

  When you brought me his ring out here today, well, I finally knew what happened to him. No more wondering, weaving possibilities in the middle of the night … that’s why I say, thank you.

  Squeezing the woman to her, Catherine said, In that case, Annie, you’re very welcome.

  Catherine walked her over to the stoop and they sat on the cement, where they finished their lemonade in silence, the sun finally touching the horizon, the sky turning shades of violet and orange and red.

  Finally Mrs. Fortunato said, I better get back inside. I need a cigarette. You want to join me?

  No, thanks. Catherine rose. I better get going, if I’m going to get this done before it’s too dark to see.

  I’ll turn on the outside lights. Picking up the empty glasses, the woman said, If you want some more lemonade, holler.

  I will, Catherine answered, and returned to themetal detector as Mrs. Fortunato disappeared back into the house. Again Catherine slipped on the headphones.

  High tech, she said to herself wryly.

  Starting at the back end of the carport, Catherine swept back and forth holding the three-foot handle, the disk-shaped detector barely two inches off the black asphalt. The machine always made her back hurt from the slightly stooped posture she assumed working it. Halfway back through the carport, on the side nearest the house, she got a tiny hit.

  It was so small, at first she thought her ears were playing tricks on her. Over and back, over and back, the same spot, each timethe small sound echoing in her head.

  Might be a shell casing, might be a screw, could be anything. One thing for sure, though: it was definitely something, something metallic. She pulled out her cell phone and punched Grissom’s number on speed dial.

  Grissom.

  I think I’ve got something here, Catherine said.

  What?

  She explained the situation. Any ideas?

  Maybe. Give me half an hour. How’s your relationship with the homeowners?

  They love me.

  Good. Get permission to dig a hole.

  … In their asphalt driveway?

  Not in their flower bed.

  Oh-kay, Gil, I’ll be waiting. She pressedEND,slipped the phone away as she walked to the front door, where she knocked.

  Gerry Hoskins, still in T-shirt and jeans, opened the screen.

  I think I may have found something, Catherine said.

  Mrs. Fortunato had apparently filled him in already, as he did not hesitate. I’ll get Annie.

  By the time Grissom showed up, the three of them stood in the yard, waiting. Catherine met Grissom at the Tahoe. Are you going to do what I think you’re going to do?

  Noweare. And it’s going to be slow and it’s probably going to be messy.

  He and Catherine put on coveralls and carried the equipment to the spot she’d marked on the asphalt. She handed him the headphones so he could hear the faint tone.

  All right, he said. Let’s get started.

  Catherine watched as he picked up a small propane torch and lit it. She asked him, Is this going to work?

  It’s the only way I could think of that would give us a decent chance of preserving the evidence. If that’s what it is.

  The torch glowed orange-blue in the darkness.

  I hope so, she said, worried. This is a lot of trouble to go through if I just located some kid’s lunch money.

  Grissom smiled. Then we’ll turn the treasure over to these good citizens, with our thanks.

  On their hands and knees, with only the porch lightto aid them, they hovered over the area as Grissom held the torch to the spot she had marked. As the asphalt softened from the heat, Catherine carefully dug the material out with a garden trowel. The closer they got to the bottom, the slower they went. Grissom held the torch further away, heating smaller and smaller sections of the carport at a more measured pace. Catherine now used a table spoon to scrape away the heated asphalt, and a miniflash to light the area as she scoured it for the bit of metal that had pinged her detector.

  Finally, after nearly two hours of this tedious labor, her knees killing her from kneeling, and with bits of the old gravel visible at the bottom of their short trench, Catherine saw something that looked out of place.

  Hold it, she said.

  Grissom pulled back even further. You see something?

  She said, I think so, and moved forward, shining the light down at the hole. Setting the spoon aside, she pulled on a pair of latex gloves and carefully picked at the edge of the hole. Her gloves were no match for the hot asphalt and she had to be careful. She poked and prodded at the spot until finally the thing popped loose.

  Grissom turned off the torch and took her flashlight, so she could use both hands.

  Scooping up the small dark object, she juggled it from palm to palm, blowing on it as it cooled. He shone the light on the thing in her hand. Small, about the size of a fingertip and about a third the diameter, the object was obviously metal but covered with the sticky black mess.

  When we get back to the lab and clean all this goop off, she said, holding the object up to the light, I think we’ll find we have a twenty-five-caliber shell casing.

  Grissom said nothing, but his eyes were as bright as the torch, right before he shut it off.[“0743444043-toc.html#toc9”]

  9

  FOR NEARLY TWO HOURSSARA IMMERSED HERSELF IN THEfiles Brass had provided, learning several significant facts the rumpled homicide detective had failed to mention.

  While the killer’s career covered nearly twenty years, only a handful of thumb prints from shell casings linked a single suspect to any of the murders. The two vertical bullet holes approximately one inch apart, his signature, had shown up in forty-two murders (prior to this week’s discoveries) in twenty-one states. Interestingly, the signature seemed to have dropped off the planet just under five years ago. Their very new murderthe dead mob attorney in the Beachcomber hallwaywas the only known exception.

  Nick popped in. Any luck?

  Predicatably, Brass missed a few things, Sara said.

  File folder in hand, he took a seat beside her.

  She filled him in quickly, concluding, I’m not sure any of this is stop-the-presses stuff. How about you?

  Tests are going to take a while, Nick said.

  Her chin rested in her palm, elbow propped against the desk. There is one other little item Brass overlooked.

  Yeah?

  None of the investigators seem to have made it an issue, but …

  Give.

  The bodies of victims are found … although who knows how many other vics, like your mummy, remain hidden away … but their cars? Never.

  I’m not sure I’m following you.

  Okay, I’ll give you the large print version. Take Malachy Fortunatodid the police ever find his car? Both he and his wheels were missing from that driveway, remember.

  Nick, thinking that over, said, I’d have to check the file for sure, but you know … I think you’re right.

  Of course I’m right. She leaned toward him. Hey, trust menobody’s seen that car since it pulled outa the driveway that morning … with Mr. Fortunato most likely riding in the trunk.

  And a pretty darn docile passenger, I’d bet, Nick said. But what about Dingelmann?

  That, I grant you, doesn’t fit the pattern, she said. But then, Dingelmann didn’t have a car. Took the shuttle from the airport.

  No rental?

  No rental. Doorman saw Dingelmann taking cabs a couple of times.

  Nick was interested. All the victims’ cars disappeared?

  If they had cars, yeah. Also, victims tended to disappear from home, from work, or some other familiar hauntand the bodies turned up elsewhere.

  Nick was nodding. Dumped, here and there.

  That would seem a reasonable assumption … of course you know how Grissom feels about assumptions.

  Nick gestured to the stack of file folders. Anything else in there we can use?

  Well, she said, shrugging, there is one thing I can’t quite get a handle on.

  Which is?

  Sara went back into full analytical mode. For some reason this prolific, professional assassin disappears almost five years ago. Why does he show up now? Especially if Grissom’s on to something, and Dingelmann wasn’t a mob hit … in which case, what the hell is this guy doing in Vegas, getting proactive again, all of a sudden?

  With a shrug, Nick said, Maybe he was hired by somebody else.

  Like who?

  Dingelmann’s ex-wife, a disgruntled business partner, who knows? Just because no bodies have turned up with that distinctive Deuce signature doesn’t mean our man hasn’t been active.

  Yeah, yeah, possible, possibleand we know at least one instance when he hid a body. So what do you think?

  Nick threw his hands palms up.

  You suppose Grissom wants to hear … She mimicked his gesture.

  Okay, he said, rising, throwing a grin off to the sidelines, I get itmore digging.

  Sara gave him a mock sweet smile. Well, don’t go away madwhat have you dug up, thus far? I showed you mine, you show me yours.

  His smile in return was almost embarrassed, and he laughed, and leaned against the doorjamb and said, I went to the website for theLas Vegas Sun,and plowed through all the old newspaper coverage on Fortunato and his disappearance, him and this dancer he was involved with … as well as going over the original file for the dancer’s disappearance. She was also officially a missing person, it turns out.

  Sara frowned in interest. Dancer?

  Exotic type. A stripper. Innocent child like you wouldn’t know about such things.

  Catherine would.

  Nick grinned. Yeahthat’s where I heard about Joy Starrstripper having an affair with casino employee Fortunato … a stripper who disappeared on the samedayas casino employee Fortunato.

  Sara was grinning; she made a yummy sound. This is getting good.

  Seems Joy Starr was a stage name for a Monica Petty. I’m going to turn the name over to Brass, see what he can do with it.

  But you might just ride along to the strip club with him.

  I might… . She was a doll, in her day.

  Joy whatever?

  Starr. Nick pulled a photo from the file folder,handed it to Sara. Next on the bill, ladies and germsthe exotic dance stylings of Joy Starr.

  Cue the ZZ Top, Sara said, looking at an 8-inch by 10-inch head shot of a pretty, dark-eyed, dark-haired woman of maybe twenty-one, with that overteased ‘80s-style hair. That’s some mall hair.

  What?

  She laughed a little. That’s what we used to call it, my girlfriends and memall hair.

  You ever have hair like that? he asked, puckishly. Middle school maybe?

  I was a heartbreaker then, she said, and I’m a heartbreaker now. Run before you get hurt, Nicky.

  Ouch, he said, glanced again at the photo, then tucked it back in the folder, and went back to his work.

  Once she and Grissom had returned, Catherine went directly into the lab and spent the next hour painstakingly cleaning the asphalt off the casing, dabbing it with acetone, doing everything within her power to make sure she did not damage it. Preserving fingerprints was a hopeless cause, but the casing itself could have other tales to tell.

  She found the firearms examiner, a friendly twenty-eight-year veteran named Bill Harper, already examining the bullets that Nick had brought in earlier.

  Harper’s longish curly gray hair looked typically uncombed and he apparently hadn’t missed a meal at least since the Nixon administration; but Catherine knew there was no better firearms examiner in the state.

  Anything? she asked him.

  Not much, he replied.

  Nothing?

  Something, but … He shrugged and stepped away from the microscope, gesturing for her to look. She stepped up and looked down at two different shells. Obviously they had not come from the same barrel.

  Rifling’s completely different, he said. Of the four shells, each pair matches, but the two pairs don’t match. The pair from the mummy matches the barrel found with the body. These other two slugs are strangers. The only commonality between pairs is they’re all the same caliber.

  Nodding, Catherine pulled back from the microscope and held up three evidence bags. You want to take a crack at the shell casings?

  Harper’s brow creased in interest. What have you got?

  Number one is from our mummy, two and three here are from the shooting at the Beachcomber.

  Sure, Harper said. Understand, this could take a while.

  I’ll wait, she said, sitting down at Harper’s desk in the corner, allowing herself to lean back.

  Watching him work, she counted the hours since she had last slept. Somewhere around twenty-four, she nodded off.

  Greg Sanders found Nick at a computer, and presented him with the DNA match for Malachy Fortunato.

  Thanks, Greg. Matched the dental already though.

  Gran Turismois still a deal, right?

  I don’t renege on a man who controls so much of my destiny.

  Smart move. Sanders shrugged. Not much off the guy’s shoes, either. He’d been on some sort of loose rock. Driveway maybe. That make any sense to you?

  Yes it does, Nick said. What about the cigarette filter?

  Sanders smirked. That piece of crud was about fifteen years oldbarely anything left.

  Way it goes.

  Now Sanders grinned; the demented gleam in his eyes meant he was proud of himself. Got some DNA off it though.

  Nick sat up. You’re kidding.

  Not workable, though.

  This guy was a walking good news/bad news joke. Thanks, dude, Nick said wearily. I’ll bring that game in tomorrow.

  Yes! Eyes dancing with joy-stick mania, Sanders departed.

  Nick Stokes spent two hours trying to find Brass and had no luck; the detective was not answering his page, so finally Nick decided he’d make the first run out to Swingers himself. At least the change of pace might help him stay awake. Figuring he’d be a nice guy about it, he went hunting for Warrick, to give his fellow CSI a chance to tag along.

  He found Warrick in a darkened lab, his head on a counter, snoring. With the hours they’d all been working, this made a whole lot of sense to Nick; and, instead of waking his co-worker, Nick retreated and closed the door.

  Grissom’s door, usually open, was shut now, lights off. The boss had kept pretty much to himself since returning with Catherine, and Nick wondered whether to bother him. On the other hand, if he didn’t check with him, Grissom might be pissedand Nick hated that.

  He knocked on the door.

  Yeah, came the tired voice from the other side.

  Nick opened the door and stuck his head into the darkened office. Bosshey, I don’t mean to disturb you.

  Get the switch, will you?

  Nick did, bathing the room in fluorescent light.

  Grissom, catching a nap on the couch, sat up; his graying hair was mussed, black clothes rumpled.

  You look like hell.

  Thanks, Grissom said, getting to his feet, stretching, you too. Grissom met Nick at the doorway. What?

  Did Catherine tell you about the dancer that disappeared, same night as Fortunato?

  Little nod. Yeah.

  Well, she used to work at this place called Swingers.

  On Paradise Road, Grissom said. He rubbed his eyes, yawned a little. Sorry.

  Even you get to be human.

  No I don’t. And don’t let me catch you at it, either.

  Nick couldn’t tell if Grissom was joking or not; drove him crazy.

  That place still open? Grissom asked, meaning Swingers.

  Should be, Nick said, with a thumb-over-his-shoulder gesture. I thought I’d go out there, see if anybody remembered her.

  That’s Brass’s responsibility.

  Nick shrugged. Can’t find him.

  O’Riley?

  Nick shook his head. Off duty.

  Conroy?

  The same.

  Grissom considered the possibilities. Take Warrick with you.

  He’s snoring in a lab, Nick said. I don’t think he’s slept in, I dunno, twenty-four hours.

  Okay, Grissom said casually, then let’s go.

  Nick reacted as if a glass of cold water had been thrown in his face. Whatyou and me?

  Cocking his head, Grissom gave Nick a look. Something wrong with that?

  Hurriedly, Nick said, No, no, it’s fine. You want to drive?