'Is that a compliment?'
'I don't care what it is-I want you back at that casino, now. Check that machine for prints, and find out whatever you can from the slot host.'
'Should I page Brass, and call in a detective?'
'When the time comes.'
Already moving, Warrick said, 'I'm on it,' as Grissom assured him, 'I'll tell Sara what's up.'
Grissom walked back down the hall to the office where Sara worked at a keyboard. 'Any luck?' he asked.
'Sure-all lousy,' she said. 'This guy covered his tracks pretty well. This e-mail must have been laundered through every freakin' ISP in the world.'
'Okay, relax.' Grissom sat on the edge of the desk, smiled at her; he'd hand-picked the Harvard grad for his unit-she'd been a seminar student of his, and he valued her tech skills, dedication and tenacity. 'There are other things to be done, right?'
'Always. Where's Warrick?'
'I sent him back to the Beachcomber.'
Her brow tightened. 'Without me?'
'Yes.'
'Think that's a good idea? Sending him to a casino all by his lonesome?'
Grissom shrugged a little. 'I trust him.'
A sigh, a smirk. 'You're the boss.'
'Nice of you to notice,' Grissom said. 'Anyway, I need you.'
She looked at him, eyebrows up, not quite sure how to take that.
'We have a date in the morgue.'
They both wore blue scrubs and latex gloves, and stood between the two autopsy tables. In front of them lay Philip Dinglemann, behind them Catherine and Nick's mummy.
'So, what are we doing here?' Sara asked.
'Read this,' he said, handing her the autopsy report for John Doe #17.
She scanned it quickly, stopped, read part of it more slowly. 'What's this, a screw-up? Robbins got the bodies backward?'
Grissom shook his head. 'The pattern's the same, to within an eighth of an inch.'
'That can't be right. . . .'
'The evidence says it's right, it's right. But you and I are going to measure them again just to be sure.'
'It's a heck of a coincidence.'
'Is it?'
'Grissom, why didn't you tell Warrick and me about this?'
'Keeping the cases separate. No assumptions that we have one case, here, until or unless the evidence tells us so.'
Nodding, she said, 'Which one first?'
'Age before beauty,' Grissom said, turning to the mummy.
Warrick parked in the vast lot behind the Beachcomber, entering through the casino, a smaller version of his field kit in hand, including fingerprinting gear. He knew (as Grissom surely did) that this was probably a pointless exercise, all this time after the killer had left the machine behind; but you never knew.
Grissom had sent him here alone, even making the questionable call of not inviting a detective along for any questioning that might come up. Either Grissom finally trusted him completely, Warrick figured, or this was a test. The whirrings of slots, the calling out of dealers, the dinging, the ringing, made for a seductive madhouse through which he walked, somehow staying focused on the job at hand.
Soon he found himself standing under the camera that had captured the videotape images Grissom had shared with him. He ignored the bells and whistles, the smoke-filled air, the expressions on faces-defeat, joy, frustration, boredom-and just did his job. He strode to the video poker machine where, less than twenty-four hours ago, the killer had sat.
The patron sitting there now, bald, bespectacled, in his mid-thirties, wore a navy Polo shirt, tan Dockers, and sandals with socks. Warrick watched as the man kept a pair of tens, drew a wild deuce and two nothing cards. Three of a kind broke even, returning a quarter for the quarter bet. Big spender, Warrick thought, as the man kept a four, six, seven and eight, a mix of clubs and diamonds.
Irritation edged the guy's voice. 'Something?'
Warrick flashed his badge. 'I'm with the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. Need to dust this machine for fingerprints.'
The gambler flared with indignation. 'I been sitting here since Jesus was a baby! I'm not giving up this machine.'
Nodding, Warrick bent down closer. 'A killer sat at this very machine yesterday morning.'
The man didn't move; but he also didn't return his attention to the poker machine.
Warrick gestured with his head. 'You see that camera over my shoulder?'
Looking up at the black bulb sticking out of the ceiling, the guy nodded.
'From a videotape shot by that camera,' Warrick said calmly, 'I viewed the killer sitting right here. Now, I'm going to call over someone from the staff and we're going to dust this machine, so I can find out who that guy was.'
'What about me? What about my rights?'
'Do you want to cash out now, or you wanna wait in the bar till I'm done? That way you can get your machine back . . . protect your investment.'
The guy gave him a sour look. 'I'll be in the bar. Send a waitress over when you're finished.'
'Thank you,' Warrick said. 'Be advised I may decide to print you, as well, sir-so I can eliminate your prints.'
Grumbling about his right to privacy, the guy hauled away his plastic bucket (with several unopened rolls of quarters in it) and walked toward the bar, padding away in his socks and sandals. Right then a casino security officer came gliding up to Warrick.
'May I help you, sir?' he asked, his voice mingling solicitude and suspicion.
The guard was black and Warrick's height, more or less, but carried an extra forty pounds-apparently of muscle-on a broad-shouldered frame. That much was evident even through the guy's snug-fitting green sports coat with its BEACHCOMBER patch stitched over the pocket. The walkie-talkie he carried in a big hand looked like a candy bar.
Again, Warrick flashed his badge and explained the situation. 'I need to see the slot host.'
'I'll have to call my supervisor,' the guard said.
'Okay.'
The guard spoke into the walkie-talkie and, in less than two minutes, Warrick found himself surrounded by half a dozen of the crisply jacketed security guards, a green sea that parted for a California-ish guy in a double- breasted navy blue suit. Though he was the youngest of them, this one seemed to be the boss-six-one, blond, good-looking.
'I'm Todd Oswalt, the slot host,' he said, extending his hand. He smiled, displaying the straight white teeth and practiced sincerity of a TV evangelist.
'Warrick Brown,' the criminalist said, shaking with the guy, 'crime lab following up on the murder, yesterday.'
Oswalt's smile disappeared, his eyes darting around to see if any of the customers had heard Warrick. 'Mr. Brown, we'll be happy to help you if you'll please, please just keep your voice down.'
Now Warrick smiled. 'Gladly, Mr. Oswalt. There was a man sitting here around five-thirty yesterday morning. I need to know everything about him that you can tell me.'
'Based on what? We have a lot of patrons at the Beachcomber, Mr. Brown.'
