'This one used a slot card on this machine at 5:42 A.M yesterday.'
Oswalt's eyes were wide; he nodded. 'I'll get right on that.'
'And while you're doing that,' Warrick said, easily, 'I'll need to fingerprint this machine.'
Oswalt frowned, glanced around again. 'Right now?'
'I could do it after business hours.'
'We never close.'
'Neither do we-so is there a better time than right now? Since I gotta be here anyway, while you're checking out that slot card?'
'Uh . . . your point is well taken. Go right ahead, Mr. Brown.'
The slot host instructed two guards to stay nearby, then he and the other of his green-jacketed merry men disappeared. Warrick spent about an hour on the machine, at the end of which time he had dozens of prints and doubted that any of them would be of any use. There was just no telling how many people had tried this machine since the killer left.
Gesturing that burly guard over, Warrick said, 'You can tell your boss I'm done.'
The guard pulled out a walkie-talkie and talked into it. He listened, then turned back to Warrick. 'We're supposed to escort you to the security office.'
'Fine. And I need to have this machine held for a guy in the bar-can you send a cocktail waitress after him?'
'Sure thing. How will I know him?'
'He'll be the only bald guy with glasses wearing socks and sandals.'
'All right. Man, you're certainly thoughtful.'
'Hey, gamblers got it hard enough already.'
The other guard was called over to escort Warrick, and the blond Oswalt was waiting for them at the security-office door. 'We've got your information, Mr. Brown. The man's name is Peter Randall.'
Warrick got out his notepad and pencil. 'Address?'
'P.O. Box L-57, 1365 East Horizon in Henderson.' Warrick felt a sinking feeling in his gut. He jotted the address down, knowing it would wind up being one of those damn rent-a-mailbox places. 'Anything else, Mr. Oswalt?'
'Not really.'
Warrick put the notepad away. 'We're going to need to go back a few days, maybe a few weeks, to look for this guy some more-the tapes we have so far don't give us a look at his face.'
'He could be a regular customer,' Oswalt admitted.
'Right. How long to round up those tapes?'
'I'm short staff, and those tapes are stored-'
'How long, sir?'
Oswalt thought about it. 'Tomorrow morning?'
'Can I look at them here?'
'We'd prefer it if you did.'
Warrick nodded. 'Thanks. I'll be back.'
From the car, Warrick called Grissom and told him the name and address. Again Grissom approved him going alone-a killer was on the loose, and trails could go quickly cold.
The drive to Henderson-a community of stucco-laden homes aligned like green
The mailboxes ran down one wall, a long counter along the opposite one. The girl behind the counter might have been eighteen, her blue smock covering a slipknot T-shirt and faded jeans. Her hair was dishwater blonde and she had a silver stud through her left nostril.
'Can I help you?' she asked with no enthusiasm.
'Is the manager here?'
'No.'
'Will he be back soon?'
'She,' the girl corrected. 'She just went to lunch.'
'Do you know where?'
'Yeah, the Dairy Queen around the corner.'
'Thanks,' Warrick said. 'Can you tell me her name?'
'Laurie.'
This was like pulling teeth. 'Last name?'
The girl thought for a moment. It seemed to cause her pain. 'I dunno.'
'You don't know?'
'Never came up.'
'Yeah. Well. Thanks again.' Meaning it, he said, 'You've been a big help.'
With the pep of a zombie, she said, 'Come back any time.'
Warrick walked to the Dairy Queen around the corner, spotted the woman who must be Laurie, sitting at a table alone, picking at an order of chicken strips and fries. She wore the same blue smock as the girl back at the store; her brown hair, cut at shoulder length, matched her brown eyes in a narrow, pretty face, and she appeared to be about six months pregnant. He went straight to her. 'Laurie?'
She looked up and, guardedly, asked, 'Do I know you?'
'No, ma'am. My name is Warrick Brown. I'm with the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau.' He showed her his badge. 'May I sit and talk to you for a moment?'
'Well . . .'
'It'll just take a few moments.'
'I suppose. Can you tell me what this is about?'
Pulling out one of the plastic-and-metal chairs, Warrick joined her at the small square table. 'I need to talk to you about one of your clients.'
Laurie shook her head. 'You know I can't talk to you about my clients without a warrant. Their privacy is at stake.'
'This man is a killer and we can't waste time.'
That impressed her, but still she shook her head again. 'I'm sorry. I just can't . . .'
Warrick interrupted her. 'His name is Peter Randall.'
Her eyes tightened.
'What is it, Laurie?'
'Funny you should ask about Mr. Randall. He closed out his account just yesterday.'
'Can you talk to me, off-the-record, while we're waiting for a warrant to arrive?'
Again she looked as if she didn't know what to do.
Warrick pulled out his phone, called Grissom, and explained the situation.
'Sara will be there with a warrant within the hour,' Grissom said. 'And I'll alert Brass.'
While they waited, Laurie finished her lunch and they returned to the storefront. The nose-stud girl seemed as bored as ever, paying little attention to them as they came to the counter, Warrick staying on the customer side, Laurie going behind it. The woman had decided to cooperate-she asked him several times, 'He's a murderer, right?'-and she pulled Randall's record right away.
'His home address?' Warrick asked.
Laurie looked at the file. 'Forty-six fifteen Johnson, here in Henderson.'
Warrick made a quick call on his cell to dispatch, for directions.
Moments later, he said, 'Damn.'
'What's the matter?'
'No Johnson Street or avenue or anything like it in Henderson. That's a fake address.'
'Oh. I mean, we don't check these kind of things. We take our customers at their word.'
Warrick went to Box L-57. 'I know you can't open this for me, until the warrant arrives. But can you say whether or not Mr. Randall has cleared it out?'
