N ick leaned over to open the door for Sergeant O’Riley, who hopped into the Tahoe for the ride to Marge Kostichek’s. As they rolled across town, O’Riley made a point of studying the features of the SUV. “Nice ride,” he said at last.

Nick nodded.

O’Riley shifted his beefy frame in the seat. “Lot better than those for-shit Tauruses they make us drive.”

Stokes refused to rise to the bait. Though the crime lab unit had helped Homicide solve numerous cases, O’Riley and many of his brethren referred to the CSIs as “the nerd squad” behind their backs. Harboring a feeling that down deep O’Riley longed for the good old days when a detective’s best friend was a length of rubber hose, Nick asked, businesslike, “What was that address again?”

Pointing up ahead, O’Riley said, “Two more houses—there on the left.”

Pulling up in front of a tiny bungalow with peeling pale yellow paint and two brown dead bushes that needed removing, Nick parked the Tahoe facing the wrong way. The whole neighborhood looked as though it could use a coat of paint and some TLC. The scraggly grass was almost as brown as the bushes, and as they got closer Nick could make out where the stoop had started to draw away from the house, as if making a break for it. With O’Riley in the lead, they walked up the cracked-and-broken sidewalk and the two crumbly concrete stairs, the detective ringing the bell, then knocking on the door.

They waited—no answer.

O’Riley rang again, knocked again, with the same lack of success. O’Riley turned to Nick, shrugged elaborately, and just as they were turning away, a voice blared from behind them.

“Well, you don’t look like Mormons!”

They turned, Nick saw a squat woman in a hot pink bathrobe and curlers.

“We’re with the police, ma’am,” O’Riley said, holding up his badge in its leather wallet. “We’d like to talk to you.”

Waving an arm she announced, as if to the whole neighborhood, “Better get your asses in here then, ’cause I’m not staying outside in this goddamn heat!”

With arched eyebrows, Nick looked at O’Riley and O’Riley looked at Nick; whatever unspoken animosity might been between the cop and the CSI melted in the blast-furnace of this woman’s abrasive personality. Nick followed O’Riley back up to the house and through the front door, glad to let the cop take the lead.

Little eyes squinted at them; her curlers formed a grotesque Medusa. “Don’t just stand there! Close the damn door. Do I look like I can afford to air-condition the whole goddamn city?”

“No, ma’am,” O’Riley said, the idea of a rhetorical question apparently lost on him.

Closing the door, Nick moved into the pint-sized living room next to the king-sized detective. Looking around, he couldn’t help but feel he had just stepped into an antique mart—and a cluttered one at that. A maroon velvet chaise longue stood under the lace-curtained front window. Next to it, a fern stretched toward the ceiling, threatening to outgrow its pot. The room also contained two tall cherry end tables with doilies on them, a nineteen-inch TV on a metal stand, and the oversized Barcalounger tucked in a corner. In the opposite corner was a writing desk, and everywhere were stacks of things—TV Guides, women’s magazines, antiquing newsletters, newspapers, mail.

O’Riley, rocking on his feet, said, “Are you Marge Kostichek?”

“That’s the name on the mailbox, isn’t it? Aren’t you a detective?”

“I’m Detective O’Riley,” he said, either ignoring or not recognizing the sarcasm, “and this is CSI Nick Stokes.”

“Cee ess what?”

Nick amplified: “Crime Scene Investigator.”

“Why, is it a crime to be a goddamn slob, all of a sudden?”

“No, ma’am,” O’Riley said, flummoxed. “What I mean is, ma’am—”

“Let me see that goddamn badge again. You can’t be a real detective.”

Flustered, O’Riley was reaching for the badge when the woman grabbed his arm.

“I’m just pulling your pud, pardner.” She laughed and various chins wiggled. “A big dumb boy like you couldn’t be anything but a cop.”

Nick had to grin. In spite of himself, he was starting to like this cranky old woman, at least when she wasn’t on his ass.

“We’d like to ask you some questions,” O’Riley said.

“I didn’t figure you stopped by to read the meter.”

Listening, Nick began to prowl the room—just looking around, stopping at this pile of magazines and mail and that, snooping. It was his job.

O’Riley was saying, “We’d like to ask you about Swingers.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ on roller skates,” she said, plopping into the Barcalounger. “I’ve been outa the skin racket for years now. I figured this was about that damned dog, two doors down! Goddamned thing won’t shut the hell up. Bark, bark, bark, all the time, yapp, yapp, yapp. Isn’t there a law against that crap?”

“Well…” O’Riley said.

“Actually,” Nick said, back by the writing desk, “we’re here about a girl who used to dance at your club.”

“Just make yourself at home, good-looking. You gotta pee or something?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Are you nervous? Why don’t you light in one place?”

“Yes, ma’am. About that girl, at Swingers…”

She waved a small pudgy hand. “Been a lot of them over the years. Hundreds. Hell, maybe thousands. They don’t keep their looks long, y’know—small window, for them to work.”

From the file folded in half in his sport-coat pocket, O’Riley pulled out the photo of Joy Starr and handed it to the woman.

Nick noticed her lip twitch, but she gave no other outward sign that she might have recognized the girl.

“Joy Starr,” O’Riley prompted.

Ms. Kostichek shook her head. “Don’t remember this one.”

Interesting, Nick thought: suddenly no wise-ass remark.

O’Riley pressed. “About sixteen years ago.”

She shook her head some more.

“Her real name was Monica Petty. She disappeared…”

Marge Kostichek cut him off. “A lot of them disappeared. Here one night, gone the next. Met some guy, did some drug, had a baby, overdosed, here a sad story, there a happy ending, they all had one or the other. So many little girls with nothing but a body and face to get ’em somewhere, hell—how could I remember ’em all?”

Nick, still poised at the writing stand, said, “But you do remember this girl.”

The old woman looked at Nick and suddenly her face froze, the dark eyes like buttons. “Why don’t you come closer, Handsome? Where I can hear you better?”

The better to see you with?

Something about this “granny” struck Nick funny—and something told him he was standing right where he needed to be….

“I’m okay here, ma’am,” Nick said. “The detective asks the questions.”

The eyes tightened; something was different in that face now. “I musta been dreamin’, then, babycakes, when you asked me that shit?”

O’Riley said, “Please take another look at the picture, Ms. Kostichek.”

Giving it only a cursory glance, she said, “Don’t know her, I said. Said I didn’t, and I don’t—if she worked for me fifteen, sixteen years ago, why the hell are you askin’ about her now?”

Nick, without turning, glanced down at the writing desk. Numerous piles of opened letters, back in their envelopes, were stacked here and there, overlapping, haphazard. Private correspondence, bills, even junk mail…

The woman thrust the photo out for O’Riley to take; he did. “Why are you digging up ancient history, anyway?” she asked. Almost demanded.

Nick didn’t handle a thing—but his eyes touched the envelopes on the desk.

O’Riley said, “Her name has come up in the investigation of another case.”

A cloud crossed the old woman’s features and disappeared. But if she wondered what that case was, she didn’t ask.

O’Riley cleared his throat. “Well, thank you for your time, Ms. Kostichek.”

On the far side of the desk, barely within his eyes’ reach, he saw it: a letter postmarked in Los Angeles, the name on the return address…

… Joy Petty.

Nick froze, only for an instant, then turned back to the frumpy, feisty woman. “Yes, thank you, ma’am.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on the ass on the way out, fellas,” she said.

He followed O’Riley, as they let themselves out, O’Riley pulling the door shut behind them. Inside the Tahoe, Nick put the key in the ignition, but made no move to start the vehicle.

“Something on your mind, Nick?”

He turned to the detective. “She’s lying.”

With a shrug, O’Riley smirked, said, “You think? That old broad wouldn’t give a straight answer to a Jeopardy! question.”

“I don’t think, Sarge—I know.”

The creased face under the trim crew cut tightened with interest. “How?”

“Her mail. You see all those piles here and there and everywhere?”

“She’s a pack rat—so what?”

“So back on that writing table, on top of one of those piles, was a letter from a ‘Joy Petty.’ What do you suppose the odds are that she knows a Joy Petty who isn’t also the Joy Starr whose real name is Monica Petty?”

O’Riley’s eyebrows had climbed. “I think the odds are we’re goin’ right back up there, right now.”

“Can we do that?”

“Was the letter out in plain sight?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Then watch and learn, bucko.”

O’Riley was out of the SUV and going back up the sidewalk before Nick could pull the keys from the ignition. The CSI trotted to catch up, the pissed-off detective already ringing the bell, then throwing open the screen door and knocking on the inside door before Nick even got to his side. Just then, Marge Kostichek jerked the door open.

“What now?” she bellowed. “We already gave!”

“That’s what you think, lady.” Getting right in her face, O’Riley bellowed back, “Why the hell did you lie to us?”

She backed up, inadvertently making room for both men to reenter the house.

O’Riley glared at her, saying to Nick. “Show me.”

Pulling on a latex glove even as he moved, Nick went to the writing desk and picked up the top letter on the stack of mail.

“Hey,” she shouted, “you can’t do that! That’s private property! Where’s your warrant?”

“Evidence in plain sight, ma’am,” O’Riley said. “We don’t need a warrant.”

Nick came over to the hair-curled harridan and held up the letter from Joy Petty for her to see. “You want to explain this to us?”

The old woman took a step back, then stumbled over to her Barcalounger and sat heavily down, with an inadvertant whoopee-cushion effect. It might have been funny if she hadn’t been crying.

 

Sara Sidle and ponytailed Detective Erin Conroy caught up with Warrick in the lobby of the Wells Fargo branch on South Nellis Boulevard. The air conditioning seemed to be set just below freezing; even though it was July in the desert, the tellers all wore sweaters.

“I’ve got another shot at getting our guy,” Warrick said.

Professional in a white pants suit, Conroy lifted an eyebrow. “Is this going to be like the mailbox place?”

He looked for evidence of sarcasm in her voice and didn’t find any. “I hope not, but who knows.”

“Nice piece of work, Warrick,” Sara said, meaning the ATM machine.

“Thanks. I haven’t been this lucky in a casino in a long time.”

A plumpish woman of forty sat behind the receptionist’s desk talking on the phone. When they approached, she held up a finger: she’d be with them momentarily…. At least that’s what Sara hoped she meant. In her lightweight short-sleeve top, Sara felt like she was standing in a meat locker.

Finally, the receptionist hung up the phone and turned to Warrick as if the two women weren’t even there.

But it was Erin Conroy who held up her badge, and said, “We need to speak to whoever is in charge of ATM transactions.”

The woman checked a list on the pullout shelf of her desk. “That would be Ms. Washington.” She picked up the phone, pressed four numbers and said, “Ms. Washington, there are three police officers here to speak to you.” She listened for a moment, hung up, and said to Warrick, “She’ll be right with you.”

Sara was seething but she didn’t bother to correct the receptionist’s description of all three of them as police officers.

They’d waited less than a minute before Sara heard the staccato rhythm of high heels on the tile floor to her right and behind her. Turning, she saw a woman in a conservative black suit approaching—with expertly coifed black hair, jade eyes, and a narrow, porcelain face. The woman held out her hand to Conroy and offered all three a wide smile. “Good morning—I’m Carrie Washington. May I help you, Officers?”

Conroy showed her credentials and shook the woman’s hand. “I’m from Homicide, and Warrick Brown and Sara Sidle, here, are from the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. We need to talk to you about one of your ATM customers.”

“Fine. Quite a crowd of you, for one customer.”

“Overlapping interests in our investigation,” Conroy said.

Ms. Washington clearly didn’t understand a word of that—Sara barely did herself—but the woman, crisply cooperative, said, “Won’t you follow me to my office?”

In the smallish suite at the far end of a wide hallway off the lobby, Carrie Washington offered them seats in the three chairs that faced her large oak desk. A computer sat on the credenza next to it, a potted plant perched in the corner, and two picture frames were placed at the edge of her neat desk, facing away from them.

“Now,” she said, steepling her fingers. “How may I help you?”

Conroy nodded to Warrick to take the lead. He did: “We need to know the name of one of your ATM customers.”

Ms. Washington’s expression conveyed her discomfort. “I’m afraid that would be—”

“It’s quite legal,” the homicide detective said, and withdrew the document from her shoulder-slung purse, and tossed the warrant onto the desk. “Judge Galvin has already authorized the action.”

The woman put on a pair of half-glasses, read the warrant. “Tell me what you need.”

“The ATM at the Beachcomber,” Warrick said, “that’s yours?”

Ms. Washington frowned thoughtfully. “I can find out—but I assume you already know as much, or you wouldn’t be here in such an impressive array.”

“It is your ATM,” Conroy said.

“Five weeks ago,” Warrick said, reading her the date from his notes, “your machine was accessed at five thirty-nine A.M. Can you tell me who did that?”

Typing the information into her computer, Ms. Washington said, “You’re quite sure about the time?”

Warrick nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

“This is going to take a few minutes.”

Conroy said, “That’s fine. We’ll wait.”

 

O’Riley sat across from Marge Kostichek at the plain wooden table in the center of the interrogation room. She was no longer a sarcastic handful, rather a morose, monosyllabic interrogation subject.

Also in the cubicle were two other chairs, one on each side of the table, a digital video camera trained on the woman and an audio tape for backup on the table. A large wall mirror—nobody was kidding anybody—was really a window with one-way glass, on the other side of which were Grissom, Catherine, and Nick, who had already filled his boss and co-worker in on why he and O’Riley thought it best to bring the former bar owner in for more questioning.

The room they were in was small with no furniture. They stood there watching the interview in the other room.

“He’s not getting anywhere with her,” Grissom said.

“Maybe there’s nowhere to get to,” Catherine offered.

“No way,” Nick said. “She knows something. That letter can’t be a coincidence.”

“Please,” Grissom said. “Not the ‘c’ word.”

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.