'Can you tell me for who?'
'Whom,' Bennett corrected.
Sighing, Nick turned back to the jeweler and said, patiently, 'Can you tell me for whom you made this ring?'
'Malachy Fortunato.'
That was a mouthful.
Nick frowned. 'You don't have to check your records or . . .'
'Malachy Fortunato. I designed and crafted this ring exactly eighteen years ago at the order of Mr. Fortunato himself.'
'One glance, and-'
'Look at it yourself. The ring has no elegance, no style. I remember most of the pieces I have created fondly. Not this one-but it was what the customer wanted.'
'So,' Nick said, 'you're sure about the ring-but the timing? Eighteen years ago . . . ?'
'Yes, three years before he disappeared.'
'Disappeared?'
The jeweler sighed; this apparently was an imposition. 'Yes, I don't recall the details. It did make the newspapers, though. Does this ring mean that you've found him?'
'I don't know, Mr. Bennett. But you've been a big help. Thanks for your time, sir.'
'My pleasure,' he said, though it clearly hadn't been.
Nick was barely out of the shop before he was punching Catherine's number into his cell phone. He had a strong suspicion she would want to log some overtime on this one, too.
5
IN THE CHEM LAB, WARRICK CHECKED THE INSTRUCTION sheet on the counter for the fourth time, then slowly stirred the fluid in the beaker. Sara appeared in the doorway just as he was finishing up. Her jeans and dark blue blouse looked crisp enough, but Sara herself looked about as tired as he felt.
'What witch's brew is that?' she asked.
Tapping the beaker with his glass stirring rod, Warrick said, 'Smith's Solution.'
'Whose solution?'
'Smith's.'
She drifted in, leaned against the counter. 'New to me.'
'New to everybody. Just got printed up in the journals, couple months ago. I found the recipe in
'Always a handy cookbook.' Sara nodded toward the beaker. 'What wonders does it work?'
'Fingerprints on shell casings come up nice and clean. . . . Intern named Karie Smith, working in Bettendorf, Iowa, came up with it.'
'God bless the heartland,' she said, flashing her distinctive gap-toothed smile. Her interest was clearly piqued. 'No kidding-no more smears?'
'Thing of the past-buggy whips and Celluloid collars.' Using a forceps, Warrick picked up one of the hotel shell casings by the rim and dipped it into the solution. He left it there for only a few seconds, then pulled it out and ran some tap water over the casing. Holding it up to the light, he let out a slow chuckle. 'Got it.'
'Show me.'
He turned the casing so Sara could eyeball the partial print near the base. Her smile turned wicked as she said, 'Let's shoot this sucker, and get it into AFIS.'
They both knew there was no way to successfully lift the print off the casing. All they could do was photograph it. But that would get the job done just fine. While Sara got the camera, Warrick set up the shot on the countertop. He placed the casing carefully on top of a black velvet pad, with the print facing up. She snapped off four quick shots.
'Where you been all night?' he asked.
'Running the prints from the room.'
'Yeah? Come up with anything?'
She moved to a different angle and shot the shell casing four more times. 'Not much-just the victim.'
'Give!'
'A Chicago attorney-one Philip Dinglemann.'
Warrick frowned at her. 'Why do I know that name?'
'I don't know. Why do you?'
'Don't know . . . but I do. . . .' He sighed, frustrated at the rusty gears of his own thinking; long night. 'What about the woman's prints?'
'A hooker.'
'What a shock.'
'Working girl's been busted three or four times in town, but mostly she works outside Clark County at the Stallion Ranch. You'll love this-her name's Connie Ho.'
Warrick's sleepy expression woke up a little. 'Ho?'
Sara lifted her hands palms up. 'What're you going to do? She's from Hong Kong; is it her fault her name's a pun? Been in the States almost ten years. Became a citizen year before last.'
'Long enough to know Ho is a bad idea for a hooker's last name.'
'Maybe she considers it advertising.'
Warrick smiled a little. 'I can't wait for you to tell Grissom we need to go to the Stallion Ranch to interview a Connie Ho.'
Sara gave him a wide smile; even Warrick had to admit that gap was cute. 'We only work the evidence, remember? Isn't that what you always say?'
It was-but Warrick, like the rest of the CSIs, sometimes questioned suspects relative to evidence because, frankly, the detectives just didn't have the familiarity with crime scene findings to pull it off properly.
'Anyway,' she was saying, 'I already filled Grissom in. He called Brass and got him to go out to the ranch, so we could work the evidence.'
'Great,' Warrick said. 'Much rather spend my time with prints and shell casings than go out to the Stallion Ranch.'
Her grin turned mischievous. 'I knew you wouldn't want to be bothered interviewing a bunch of silly half- naked women.'
Actually, she was right, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction.
'So,' she said, their photography session completed, 'what's next?'
'First, we put these prints into AFIS,' he said, nodding to the camera, 'then we go downstairs and see how Sadler did with that Palm Pilot. I asked him to rush it.'
Before long they were in the minuscule basement cubicle of computer technician Terry Sadler. In his late twenties, with short brown hair and long narrow sideburns, Sadler had skin with the pale glow of someone who saw the sun far too infrequently.
'What's up, Terry,' Warrick said. 'Find anything on our Palm Pilot?'
Like a manic ferret on a double cappucino, Sadler sat hunkered over his work station with his fingers flying and his keyboard rattling. 'Just the usual stuff,' he said, his words as rapid as his actions. 'A list of phone numbers, his schedule, couple of pieces of e-mail. I printed it all off for you.'
'Where is it?'
Rooting around his desk with one hand, other hand hunt-and-pecking, Sadler finally held up a thin manila folder. 'Here you go.'
Sara was watching this with wide eyes.
'Thanks, Terry,' Warrick said, as low-key as Sadler wasn't. 'I owe you.'
'That's right.' The computer tech threw a glance at the criminalist. 'The usual.'
'Usual. . . . How's tomorrow night?'
'Just fine, Warrick. Just fine.'
They headed back up the stairs, Warrick leafing through the papers in the file as they went.
