drop-a bloodstain does not a crime scene make.'
'True.'
'Plus, the detectives were convinced the married Mr. Fortunato ran off with his girlfriend, and that the blood stain was a dodge to throw the mob off the track.'
'The mob?'
'Gamblers, anyway. The variety that breaks limbs when markers go unpaid.'
'If Malachy's the mummy, I'd say his dodge didn't work.' Looking over Nick's shoulder, she slowly scanned the file. 'Small-time casino worker, big gambling debts, suspected of embezzling at work. Ouch-that might have gotten a contract put out on him.'
'He worked at the Sandmound,' Nick said, referring to a long-since demolished casino, which had dated back to the days when Vegas had been a syndicate stronghold. 'Two bullets in the back of the head, that's a fairly typical expression of mob displeasure.'
'Okay,' Catherine said. 'I'm liking this . . . but why do you think Malachy's our mummy?'
Nick's tight smile reflected pride. 'I traced the ring you found on the body. Jeweler who made the bauble recognized it. Bada-bing.'
'Please. . . . Okay, you did good. Let's print out this report so we can look at it a little closer.'
Nick printed the file.
'There's a sample of the bloodstain from that carport and a cigarette butt from the backyard in Evidence,' Catherine said, sitting, reading the hard copy. 'We can pull them, and try to get a DNA match, to make sure this is our guy.'
Nick flinched. 'Damn-that's gonna take forever.'
'Good things come to those who wait . . . and while we're waiting . . .' Her voice trailed off as she noted Fortunato's address, and reached for a phone book. 'Says he lived with his wife Annie.' Thumbing the white pages, Catherine found the FOR's, ran a finger down the column, and said, 'And she still lives there.'
Neither was too surprised; the real residents of Vegas put down roots, like anyone anywhere else.
Nick squinted in thought. 'Does that mean we have a fifteen-year-old crime scene?'
'It means I'm going to track O'Riley down, and run out there.' She waved the printout. 'I want to meet the little woman whose husband ran off with his girlfriend . . . and have a look at what may be a
Nick bobbed his head. 'I'll get on the DNA.'
'Good.' Glancing through the file one more time, she noticed a note that said the police had returned Mr. Fortunato's personal effects to his wife. 'What the hell?'
She handed the note to Nick, who read it and shrugged. 'So?'
Catherine's half-smile was wry and skeptical. 'If Malachy the mummy was missing, what personal stuff did they have of his?'
'There's no inventory?'
She shuffled through the papers one more time. 'Nope.'
Nick shrugged. 'Could be anything.'
'Could be something.' She rose, went to the door and turned back to him. 'Nice work, Nick. Really nice.'
He gave her another dazzler, pleased with himself. 'I'm not as dumb as I look.'
'No one could be,' she said with affection, and he laughed as she waved and went out.
O'Riley met Catherine in front of the Fortunato house and she filled him in. She liked working with the massive, crew-cut detective because the man knew his limitations, and wasn't offended when she broke protocol and took the lead in questioning. She did wonder where he'd come up with that brown-and-green-plaid sportshirt; maybe the same garage sale as the who-shot-the-couch sportcoat.
The one-story stucco ranch had an orange tile roof and a front yard where the sparse grass was like the scalp of a guy whose transplant wasn't taking. Heat shimmered up off the sidewalk, and from the asphalt drive that had, in the intervening years, replaced the gravel driveway of the file photos. The carport, at least, remained.
The detective knocked on the door and almost immediately it opened to reveal a thin, haggard, but not unattractive woman in her fifties, with a cigarette dangling between her lips.
'Mrs. Fortunato?' O'Riley asked, flashing his badge. He identified himself and Catherine.
'I used to be Mrs. Fortunato. But that's kind of old news-why?'
Catherine said, 'You're still listed under that name in the phone book, Mrs.-'
'I'm still Annie Fortunato, I just don't use the 'Mrs.' It's a long boring story.' She looked from face to face. 'What's this about, anyway?'
Catherine held the evidence bag containing the ring out in front of her-the distinctive gold-and-diamond ring winked in the sunlight, the 'F' staring at the woman, the woman staring back.
Taking the bag, a slight tremor in her hands, Mrs. Fortunato studied the gaudy ring. A tear trailed down her cheek and she wiped it absently. Another replaced it and another, and soon the woman shook violently and slipped down, puddling at O'Riley's feet even as he tried to catch her.
A burly man in a white T-shirt and black jeans bounded into the living room from the kitchen. 'Hey, what the hell?' he yelled, moving forward toward the stricken woman.
O'Riley, surprised to see the guy, pulled his badge and tried to show it to the man who barreled toward them, his fist drawn back ready to punch O'Riley in the face. The badge slipped from O'Riley's grasp and his hand came back toward his hip.
In horror, Catherine realized the big cop, spooked and unnerved, was going for his gun. She grabbed O'Riley's gun hand, keeping him from drawing his pistol and, in the same fluid motion, stepped in front of the detective, ready to take the blow from the large man freight-training toward them.
Facing the oncoming potential attacker, she almost yelled, 'It's all right, sir! We're with the police.'
The punch looped toward her and Catherine flinched, but the blow never landed. Her words registered just in time, and the brute halted the punch just short of her face.
She gasped; but she would have done it again, because if she hadn't, O'Riley might well have been up before the shooting board for firing on an unarmed citizen. A lousy career move. And dead or wounded citizens were not helpful to an investigation.
'Police?' the big guy was asking, dumbfounded.
Behind her, on the stoop, O'Riley stumbled backward, regained his balance, and stood there staring at Catherine as the big guy helped Annie Fortunato to her feet. The apparent man of the house led the shaken woman inside, helping her to take a seat on the sofa. Finally, O'Riley followed.
'Who are you, sir?' Catherine asked, as she quickly took in the living room, an ode to the brass-and-glass movement of the eighties. After picking his badge up, O'Riley relegated himself to the background. The big detective was trembling, and embarrassed, and Catherine was only too happy to carry the ball.
Catherine repeated: 'Sir, who are you, please?'
The T-shirted brute's attention was on the weeping woman, but he said, 'Gerry Hoskins. I'm Annie's . . . uh . . . friend.' Middle-aged, the powerfully built six-foot Hoskins wore his brown hair almost as short as O'Riley's; his oval face had a bulldog look, offset by deep blue eyes which Catherine supposed would look attractive when they weren't blazing with anger . . . as they were now.
'What did you do to her?' he demanded.
Fighting to regain control, Annie Fortunato handed Hoskins the evidence bag.
'They . . . they found Mal,' the woman managed between sobs.
He looked at the initial on the ring. Then he stared at his agonized lady friend, and, finally, Hoskins seemed to get it. 'Oh, God. You finally found him? You wouldn't be here, he wasn't dead, right?'
Catherine ignored this; and O'Riley was just another outmoded hunk of furniture. Crouching on her haunches so she could look the woman in the eye, Catherine said, 'We think your husband is dead, Mrs. Fortunato . . . but we need to make sure. I know it's been many years . . . do you remember, did Malachy have a dentist he visited regularly?'
