Hoskins swallowed, stood, and went over to O’Riley in his corner. He extended his hand. Sorry, man. I shouldn’ta swung on you. It’s just that it looked like …

  Forget about it, O’Riley said, taking the guy’s hand.

  Am I gonna get charged with anything? Swinging on a cop like that?

  O’Riley waved it off. Simple misunderstanding.

  Sure you don’t want any coffee?

  I could use some, O’Riley admitted.

  Wanting to keep Hoskins busy, Catherine said, Me, too. Thanks.

  Hoskins went into the kitchen and O’Riley melted back into the corner.

  Gerry’s been good to me, Mrs. Fortunato said, her eyes following Hoskins into the kitchen. These last years, he helped me survive.

  Catherine pressed forward. Mrs. Fortunato, tell me about the day Malachy disappeared.

  Again, not missing a beat, the woman knew: January twenty-seventh, nineteen eighty-five.

  Yes. What do you remember?

  Everything, Mrs. Fortunato said, stubbing out one cigarette in the ashtray on the end table and immediately lighting up another. Mal had been nervoustrouble at work, I figured. He never really told me much about things like that. He always got up early, around five-thirty, and by six-thirty, he was on his way to work. He was dedicated to his job, despite what those people said. Anyway, on that morning, I didn’t hear him get up.

  Go on.

  I worked late nights, in those days. I was a cashier over on Fremont Street. Mal worked at the Sandmound, in the office, accounting.

  Excuse mewasn’t your husband a gambler?

  Oh yes.

  I thought the casinos didn’t hire gamblers for jobs of that nature.

  No one knew he was gambling … except me. He was doing it from phone booths. Calling bookies out east. By the time anyone found out what was going on, him and that dancer had disappeared. She drew on the cigarette; her eyes glittered. I hope the bastards killed her too. She was the one turned him from a guy who liked a friendly bet into a gambler.

  How do you mean?

  Well, it’s obvious. If he hadn’t tried to keep us both happy, he wouldn’t have stolen that money. He wouldn’t have been betting on games trying to make enough money to support two women.

  Catherine frowned. So, he really was embezzling? Whether it was proven or not?

  Another shruga fatalistic one. Why would they lie to me about it? What could they get out of me? They weren’t so bad, anyway, for a bunch of goddamn mobsters. I worked in casinos for years, myself.

  Catherine hit from another side. Could it have been the bookies he bet with out east that put out a contract on him? Not his bosses at the casino?

  Your guess is as good as mine. Mrs. Fortunato snuffed out her latest cigarette. You know, in my head, I always hoped he ran off. Then at least, he’d be alive. But in my heart? I knew he was dead.

  Steering her back, Catherine asked, About that day?

  The woman stared into the past. I got up about ten that morning. Got the paper off the stoop. It didn’t always come before Mal left for work. If it did, he brought it in. But that morning it was on the stoop. I picked it up, looked toward the carport, and Mal’s car was gone, just like it ought to be. So, I went about my business. I read the paper, had some breakfast, called my momshe was still alive back thenyou know, stuff and things.

  Catherine nodded.

  About four-thirty, I decided to go to the grocery store, get something nice for dinner. I hadn’t talked to Mal all day, but I expected him home around six or so. It was my day off and he usually came right home on my day off, so we could spend the evening together. A wistful smile flickered; her eyes grew moist again.

  Catherine knew what it was like, loving a louse. You must have loved him a great deal.

  Tears overflowing again, she nodded.

  Catherine moved up onto the couch and let the woman cry on her shoulder.

  After several long moments, Mrs. Fortunato shuddered, then pulled away, mumbling her thanks. Then she spoke quickly: I decided to go to the grocery, and went out the back door. We used the back door almost exclusively. I went out and saw this dark red blotch on the gravel of the carport. This was before we paved the driveway. Goddamn asphalt. It’s for shit in this heat. But the contractor said it was cheap and I didn’t know any better.

  Catherine tried not to rush the woman, but she could see O’Riley getting antsy in the corner.

  Hoskins returned, carrying a tray with four cups and sugar and cream.

  The woman said to him, I was just telling them about the asphalt.

  Contractor was a goddamn crook, he said and went back into the kitchen for the coffee.

  You saw the dark red blotch, Catherine prompted.

  Yeah, yeah, and I just knew. I looked at it close and I just knew it was drying blood. I came right back in the house and called the police.

  Hoskins brought in the coffee. They each took a cup and he poured. Mrs. Fortunato used lots of sugar and some cream, Hoskins only the cream, while O’Riley and Catherine drank theirs black. Much better than the break-room swill.

  Catherine thanked Hoskins, as did O’Rileyshenoticed a tiny tremor in the cop’s big hand. She turned back to Mrs. Fortunato. So, you called the police.

  Yes. They came, took a sample of the blood, and were never able to tell me anything. They never even found Mal’s car.

  The report said that the police returned your husband’s personal effects.

  The woman nodded.

  There was no inventory in the reportI was curious what they had of his.

  Gerry, could you get the box? You know where it is.

  Hoskins left the room again.

  When the cops brought back the box, the woman said, I barely opened it. Mostly it was junk from Mal’s desk at work. An edge was creeping into her voice. One of the things they found, though, was a letter to him from his whore. That’s what made them think he ran away with her.

  Hoskins came back in carrying a plain brown cardboard box and handed it to Catherine.

  May I take this with me? she asked.

  The woman scowled. Be my guest. And do me a favorthis time, don’t bring it back. There’s nothing in that box I ever want to see again. That was the property of a different mannot my Mal.

  Accepting the box, Catherine asked, By the way, did Malachy smoke?

  No, not ever. He thought it was a filthy habit. She glanced at the cigarette in her hand. Ironic, huh? I’d quit smoking ‘cause of him … then when he disappeared, started in again. Nerves.

  I’m sorry, Mrs. Fortunato, but I have to ask you one more question.

  Yes?

  Can you tell me the name of the dancer your husband was involved with?

  Mrs. Fortunato’s jaw set, her lips whitened. She stabbed out the cigarette, repeatedly jabbing it into the ashtray, sending up a small shower of sparks.

  Hoskins said, Joy Starr.

  Why do you need her name? Mrs. Fortunato asked.

  We’d like to talk to her, Catherine said. But first we’ll have to find out what became of her.

  Hoskins offered, Annie never knew if that was her real name, or just a stage name… . But she worked at a place called Swingers. It’s still thereway down south on Paradise Road.

  Catherine knew the place. Okay, Mr. Hoskinsthanks. She turned to the woman. Thank you, Mrs. Fortunato, for your time and patience. I know this has been difficult. We’ll be looking into your husband’s murder, now, so we may have more questions later.

  Catherine held out her hand and the woman grasped it, warmth in her grip. The stoniness in Mrs. Fortunato’s face seemed to melt away.

  Somehow, the woman said, I feel … better. Thank you.

  When the cop and the criminalist got outside into the July heat, O’Riley stopped Catherine, near her car.

  Thanks for doin’ my job in there. And, uh … well, just thanks.

  She gave him a look.

  The crewcut head shook, and he blew out wind. I was ready to draw down on the S.O.B.

  Forget it, Sarge. Could have happened to anyone.

  Catherine noticed a slight shudder in O’Riley’s hands as the detective got into his car. After placing the box of Malachy Fortunato’s effects in the backseat, she climbed into the Tahoe and phoned Nick.

  Nicky, Malachy’s our mummy. Get the address of a dentist named Roy McNeal and get back to me. I want to pick up Fortunato’s dental records before I come back to the office.

  Cool, Nick said. Get right back to you.

  She sat in the SUV and studied the house as she waited for Nick’s call. So Malachy didn’t smoke, and at the time of his disappearance, his wife wasn’t a smoker, either. A cigarette butt in the backyard could mean somebody waited for Malachy Fortunato to leave the house, that morning fifteen years ago… .

  He lit the cigarette, clicked the Zippo closed, and leaned against the house as he took a long drag. Dew still clung to the new sod. Grass probably wouldn’t last long here, but they always seemed to make the effort when they put up one of these new homes. The house he stood behind had been built within the last six months and only inhabited for the last two. The mark inside, some guy named Fortunato, had pissed off the wrong people.

  Houses on either side held families that still slept peacefully. Behind the house, where he now stood puffing away on his Marlboro, the backyard butted up against one from the next block. Those homes, however, had not been completed,and the construction crews hadn’t yet arrived to begin the day’s work. So he had the neighborhood to himself… .

  Fortunato’s schedule seemed etched in stone. For the week the hitter had been watching him, the mark had left the house within a two-minute window, every morning. The hitter loved a clockwork guy. Same time, same path, everyday, an invitation for someone to cap a poor, sad son of a bitch.

  He took another drag, let the smoke settle in his lungs, then slowly blew it out through his nose. Glancing at his watch, he smiled. Plenty of time to enjoy this cigarette, no reason to rush. Finish the smoke, put on his gloves, then go to work.

  Taking one last drag, the hitter held it in for a long time before blowing the smoke out and stubbing the butt into the yard with his foot. He pulled the gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Rotating his head, he felt the bones in his neck crack as he loosened up; then he checked his watch one last time.

  Time to punch the clock.

  He withdrew his automatic from its holster, checked the clip, then screwed on the silencer. He shifted slightly so he could see around the corner. No target yet. Ducking back, he slowed his breathing, waited… .

  The mark walked out of the door, closed it, then the screen, and turned to his car. The hitter came up behind Fortunato, squeezed the trigger and felt the small pistol buck in his hand. A tiny flower of red blossomed from the back of the mark’s head. Didn’t even have time to yell, simply folded in on himself and dropped.

  Going down with him, the killer put another shot one inch above the firstan insurance policy and a signature. Then the killer pulled the car keys from the dead man’s hand, peered over the fender of the car to make sure no one had seen the action. Satisfied the neighbors still slept, hejumped up, opened the trunk, picked up the body and dumped it in, slammed the lid, then got in the front, behind the wheel, and turned the key.

  The engine turned over, rumbling to life and, not rushing, the hitter backed the car out of the driveway and eased down the street, just another middle-class joe on his way to work.

  There was no one around when he arrived at the vacant lot off Russell Road. None of the passing motorists paid any attention to a guy driving into the lot to dump his trash, like so many others had before him. It took only a moment to find what he sought. To his left, shielded from the road, was the abandoned house trailer he’d spotted earlier. The hulk had already begun to rust, and he figured no one would be nosing around it for some time. Several sheets of its aluminum skin had slipped off. Some hung precariously from the side, others lay scattered like molted scales.

  He pulled the body from the trunk, careful to avoid the bleeding skull, and dragged the meat by its feet to the trailer. He shoved the body onto a sheet of aluminum, then pushed the sled of metal underneath the trailer. As a parting gift, he unscrewed the silencer, which he dropped in a pocket; then removed the barrel from the automatic and tossed it under the trailer with the corpse. With more strips of trailer skin, some wood and rubble, he blocked the opening. Then, using his foot, he covered over the blood trail with dirt, wiping out most of the footprints (among so many footprints already), and casually drove off. He would ditch the car elsewhere.

  The cell phone rang and shook Catherine from her reverie-cum-reconstruction.

  Write down this address, Nick said, and he gave itto her, and she did. Dr. McNeal’s nurse’ll have Malachy Fortunato’s file waiting for you.

  Within an hour an energized Catherine Willows was driving back to headquarters with the dental records in hand, certain she was about to establish the identity of their mummy.

  Finding him had only been yesterday; today, with the victim identified, the search would shift to his killer.[“0743444043-toc.html#toc7”]

  7

  AS IF HYPNOTIZED BY A FASCINATING WORK OF CINEMATICart, Grissom watched the gray grainy picture crawling across the monitor; this was yet another Beachcomber video, one of scores he’d examined over the past twenty-four hours. Right now he was taking a second pass through the stack of tapes that represented the morning of the shooting. Occasionally he would remove his glasses and rub his eyes, and now and then he would stand and do stretching exercises, to relieve the low back pain all this sitting was engendering.

  But mostly he sat and watched the grainy, often indistinct images. A normal person might have gone mad by now, viewing this cavalcade of monotony; but Grissom remained alert, interested. Each tape was, after all, a fresh piece of evidence, or at least potential evidence. Right now, in an angle on the casino, the time code read 5:40A.M.

  The ceiling-mounted camera’s viewabout halfway back one of the casino’s main aisles, looking toward the frontincluded a blurry picture of the pathfrom the lobby to the elevators. At this time of morning, casino play was relatively sparse. Notably apparent in frame were a man sitting at a video poker machine, on the end of a row near the front, and a woman standing at a slot two rows closer to the camera, this one facing it. For endless minutes, nothing happenedthe handful of gamblers gambling, the occasional waitress wandering through with a drink tray; then Grissom noticed a figure in the distancebetween the lobby and the elevator.

  Sitting a little straighter, forcing his eyes to focus, Grissom felt reasonably certain the blurry figure in the background was their victim from upstairs. He hunched closer to the screen, eyes narrowed, watchingyes!John Smith as he took a few steps, and then glanced casually in the direction of the man at the video poker machine. Almost as if Grissom had hitPAUSE,John Smith froze.

  Smith was too far in the background for the security camera to accurately record his expression; but Grissom had no trouble making out Smith as he abruptly took off toward the elevator. Nor did Grissom have any trouble seeing the poker player start after him, get stopped by something attaching him to the machine, which he pulled out, and then followed Smith to the elevator.

  As the man on the monitor screen moved away from the poker machine, Grissom was able to note the same clothes he’d seen on the fleeing killer on the videotape from upstairs, right down to the black running shoes.

  Damnhow had he missed this first time around?Grissom shook his headit had all happened quickly,in the time it might have taken him to rub his eyes from fatigue.

  Grissom stopped the tape, replayed it, replayed it again. As with the hallway tape, the killer never looked at the camera.Had he knowingly positioned himself with his back to the security camera? Was he a hitman stalking his prey?

  He watched the tape several more times, concentrating now on the hesitation in the killer’s pursuit. Finally he noticed the flashing light on top of the machine. The killer had hit a winner just as he took off after the victim! Was that what had stopped him?

  No. Something else.

  Grissom halted the tape. He knew who could read this properly. He knewjustthe man… .

  He stood in the doorway and called down the corridor: Warrick!

  When this got no immediate response, Grissom moved down the hallway, a man with a mission, going room to room. He stuck his head inside the DNA lab, prompting the young lab tech to jump halfway out of his skin.

  I didn’t do it, Grissom, Greg Sanders said. It’s not my fault!

  This stopped Grissom just long enough for him to twitch a tiny smile. I’m sure you didn’t do it, Gregwhatever it is. Have you seen Warrick?

  Last I saw him, he and Sara were working on AFIS … but maybe that was yesterday… .

  At that, Grissom frowned. Precision, Greg. Precision.

  Back in the hallway, he moved on in his search,and almost bumped into the lanky Warrick, stepping around the corner, typically loose-limbed in a brown untucked short-sleeved shirt and lighter chinos.

  You rang, Gris?

  Grissom was on the move again. Come with meI want to show you something.

  Back in his office, Grissom played Warrick the tapetwice.

  Well? Grissom asked.

  There was never any rushing Warrick; his eyes were half-hooded as he played the tape for himself one more time.

  Then Warrick said, Looks to me like he’s pulling a casino card from the machine.

  Grissom smiled. And we know what that does for us.

  Oh yeah. Casino can track the card. They can give us thenameon the card. Warrick frowned in thought. You don’t suppose the killer’s local?

  I don’t suppose anything, Grissom said. But that possibility hasn’t been ruled out… . What are you working on?

  Warrick jerked a thumb toward the door. Sara and me, we were working on tracing the sender of a piece of e-mail on Dingelmann’s Palm Pilot.

  Grissom frowned. Dingelmann?

  Warrick gave him a look. That’s the victim’s namePhilip Dingelmann.

  Were you waiting for Christmas to give it to me?

 

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