Double Dealer

still Catherine couldn't seem to find a lead.

Nick came through the door and plopped down on a plastic chair just inside her office. 'Anything?'

'Well, I think I've eliminated about forty missing persons with either a first initial or a middle initial of 'F.' '

'And now?'

'Starting on the 'F' last names.'

'How many are there?'

'From ten to twenty years ago, only another hundred or so that are still open.'

'If our mummy's from Vegas.'

A look came across Catherine's face. 'Got a better idea?'

Nick checked his watch. 'Time to try the prints.'

Returning to the morgue, they lifted the hands out of the Formalin, and set them on an autopsy table to dry.

'Give them a while, then we'll print them,' she said. 'Let's get something to eat, then come back.'

He nodded. 'Sounds good.'

She smirked, shook her head. 'You think there's anything gross enough to spoil a CSI's appetite?'

'When something comes up,' Nick said slyly, 'I'll let you know.'

Forty-five minutes later, after their deli sandwiches, they returned and printed both the palms and the second flange of the fingers below the amputations. They fed the prints into AFIS, got fifteen possible matches. It took the rest of the shift to go through them and, when they finished, they still had nothing.

Catherine stretched her aching muscles, looked at her watch and said, 'I've got to get home to get Lindsey off.'

Nick nodded. 'I'm going to catch some breakfast.'

'Food again.'

'Then I might log a little overtime, try to run down the jeweler's initials on the ring. You wanna join in, after you get Lindsey to school?'

She shook her head. 'I need some sleep. I put my overtime in on the front end of my shift. . . . Call me later, tell me what you find.'

'You got it,' he said, picking up the evidence-bagged ring.

In the parking lot, Catherine headed left toward her car and the trip home to her daughter while Nick went right, climbed into his own ride and took off to find a bite to eat. When he had first moved from Dallas to Vegas, he frequently took advantage of the casinos' breakfast buffets. But now, after working off the pounds he had gained doing that, he was more careful about where and how much he ate.

He only knew one jeweler, personally, in the city-an older guy named Arnie Mattes, who a while back Nick had helped to prove innocent of robbing his own jewelry store in a suspected insurance scam. Mattes wouldn't be at his store for another hour at least; this gave Nick time for a leisurely breakfast at Jerry's Diner, and a chance to actually read the morning paper, instead of just glancing through it.

Though the Las Vegas Sun carried a front-page story about the discovery of the mummy at the construction site, the murder at the Beachcomber found itself relegated to a small story on page two of the Metro section. The mummy story was unusual, just a hint of sensationalism for morning reading; but the dead man in the hallway might have alarmed tourists, so that was played down. The city fathers, Nick knew, were sensitive to any scandal that might ruin the wholesome, family environment they'd been working so hard to cultivate.

He moved on to the sports section. Nick was a dyed-in-the-wool baseball fan-the Las Vegas 51's had shutout the Nashville Sounds last night-but because of his work attended few games and was forced to follow the team's progress in the paper when he got the chance.

After finishing his meal, Nick drove the short distance from the small cafe to Mattes' jewelry store, just off Charleston Boulevard. The CLOSED sign still hung in the door when Nick pulled up, but he spotted Mattes placing a necklace in the window, and parked the car in front. Walking briskly to the door, Nick knocked.

Mattes recognized the young criminalist at once, waved, and moved to the door to unlock it. 'Nick Stokes, as I live and breathe. Welcome, welcome-come in, get out of the heat.'

Smiling, Nick entered. 'How are you doing, Mr. Mattes?'

'Fine, Nick, fine, fine.' Pushing seventy, the jeweler stood maybe five-six and seemed almost like a child playing dress up, his skinny arms practically swallowed up by the baggy short sleeves of his white shirt. Black- rimmed glasses slid halfway down his nose, with a small magnifying glass, looking like a little crystal flag, waving from the left corner of the frames. 'What about you, son?'

'I'm good, but I've got a problem I thought you might be able to help me with.'

'Anything.'

Pulling the evidence bag from his pocket, Nick held it up so Mattes could see the ring inside. 'Can you tell me who made this?'

Mattes took the bag from Nick, held it up to the light. 'May I remove it from the bag?'

'Please.'

Carefully, the jeweler set the plastic bag on the glass counter, separated the seal, and almost religiously lifted the ring out. 'Kind of gaudy, for my taste. Of course, that's typical in this town.'

A crooked smile played at the corners of Nick's mouth. 'What else can you tell me?'

Pulling his magnifying glass down over the left lens of his glasses, Mattes studied the ring for a long moment, turning it this way and that. 'These initials,' he said, pointing inside the gold band.

'J-R-B.'

'Yes. The manufacturer of this particular item. The initials of J.R. Bennett.'

'You know him?'

Mattes nodded. 'An acquaintance from many years in the business. He runs a shop in the mall attached to the Aladdin. . . . Oh, what is it called?'

'Desert Passage?'

'That's it, son, Desert Passage. His store is called . . . something a little too precious . . . uh, yes. Omar's.'

'Omar's?'

'Silly theme they have, there, desert bazaar. When you visit Mr. Bennett, give him my regards.'

'I will, Mr. Mattes, and thanks.'

'Stop by any time, Nick. Remember what I said-you find a girl, we'll find a ring for her.'

Nick glanced to one side and grinned, then looking back at the jeweler said, 'I'll keep that in mind, sir.'

Supposedly fashioned on a Casablanca marketplace, the Desert Passage mall was the only place in Vegas that could be counted on for regular rainfall. Every quarter hour, in fact, the mall's indoor thunderstorm broke loose for five minutes; positioned over the lagoon, the manmade storm managed to rain a great deal and yet never get anything wet. The tourists seemed to love it, stopping to take pictures of the water gushing from hidden sprinklers in the ceiling, amazed by the white flashes of strobe lightning.

Nick had walked about a quarter of the way around the mall-thinking about his late girlfriend, Kristi, for whom he'd bought bath and body oil at a little kiosk, here-when he spotted Omar's.

The jewelry store was small, but Nick could tell the good stuff when he saw it-and this was the good stuff. Only one U-shaped glass counter showed the various wares of the store, designed for lucky winners with new money to burn; but for the most part, this wasn't the place to buy off the rack: this was where the wealthy had jewelry designed for them.

Behind the counter stood a fiftyish man who had to be six-seven, at least. The tall man had short hair thinning on top, an angular face that gave away very little, and large brown eyes that revealed even less. He gave Nick what might have been a smile. 'May I help you, sir?'

Showing the man his credentials, Nick asked, 'Are you J.R. Bennett?'

'Yes.'

Nick withdrew the evidence bag from his pocket, showed the jeweler the gold ring with the diamond 'F.' 'Have you seen this ring before?'

'Most certainly,' Bennett said. 'I designed and crafted it.'