Double Dealer

'Yeah?'

' 'Straight skinny'?'

Grissom just smiled, and Nick laughed.

They climbed back into the Tahoe and Nick started the engine. They were passing the airport when Grissom finally spoke again. 'I guess you've picked up on my being hesitant to let you out on your own.'

Nick said nothing.

'You don't like that much, do you?'

Turning, Nick met Grissom's eyes, but he said nothing.

'You know why that is, don't you?'

Nick shrugged. 'You don't think I'm ready.' A traffic-light turned red and Nick braked to a stop.

'I know you're not ready.'

Nick turned to his boss and even he could hear the earnestness in his voice. 'You're wrong, Grissom. I'm ready. I'm so ready.'

Grissom shook his head.

The light turned green and Nick fought the urge to stomp on the gas. He slid ahead slowly.

'That bouncer,' Grissom.

Embarrassed, Nick said, 'Yeah, yeah . . .'

'If I hadn't stepped in, you'd have wound up in a fight with a citizen. Which would have led to suspension for you, and a black eye for our unit.'

'I just . . .' Nick stopped. He knew Grissom was right and somehow that made him even angrier. He looked down at the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

'You forgot why you were there,' Grissom said, 'and let it turn into some kind of . . . macho foolishness. The case is the thing, Nick. It's the only thing.'

Nick hung his head. 'You're right. I know.'

'Don't beat yourself up-fix it.'

'Yeah, I will. Thanks, Grissom.'

'Anyway, this is a good example of why we let Brass and his guys handle the people. We're better at evidence.'

'Hey,' Nick said, pulling into the Criminalistics parking lot, 'we didn't do so bad, end of the day, did we?'

'Not so bad,' Grissom admitted.

'Of course I'm not so sure we needed to brush our teeth.'

In the firearms lab, Bill Harper laid a hand on Catherine's shoulder and she jumped.

'Sorry,' he said, jumping back himself.

'No! No, I'm sorry. I must have . . .'

'Slept for hours?' he offered.

'Oh, no, I couldn't have. . . .'

He pointed at the clock on the lab wall.

'Oh, my God,' she said, flushed with embarrassment. 'I'm really sorry, Bill.'

His smile told her it was okay. 'Hey, it was all right-you seemed to need it. You really looked bushed.'

'Do I look any better?'

'Catherine, few look any better, at their worst. . . . Go wash up, and then we'll talk.'

With a reluctant smile, she took his advice.

Ten minutes later she returned from the locker room to the lab, face washed, hair combed. She hated to admit her own human frailty, but she felt worlds better after the nap. 'Okay, Bill, what have you got?'

'Have a look at the monitor.'

She looked at the computer screen on Harper's work table and saw the butt ends of two casings next to each other.

'What do you see, Catherine?'

Studying the two images, she said, 'Twenty-five caliber, one Remington, one Winchester.'

He pointed to the primers.

'They've both been struck,' she added.

'They've both been struck-identically.' Reaching over, he clicked the mouse and the two primers suddenly filled the screen. He pointed out three different bumps. They were correspondingly placed on each primer.

She could feel her whole face light up as she smiled. 'The same firing pin?'

He nodded. 'Helluva thing, ain't it? Fifteen years apart-two different crimes . . . same firing pin.'

Catherine took a step back.

Harper clicked again and the picture zoomed back out to show the ends of the casings. 'And look here,' he said, pointing to tiny barely visible indentations at four points on the end of the cartridge, 'this is where each one hit the breech wall.'

She felt almost giddy. 'You're going to tell me they're identical, too, aren't you?'

'Yes, ma'am-and that ain't all. . . . The scratches from the extractor, when the shell was ejected?'

She nodded her understanding.

Harper grinned. 'They match too.'

Catherine let out a long breath, shaking her head, amazed and delighted at the findings. 'He's using the same gun . . . and thinks he's fooling ballistics, changing out the barrels. Grissom was right-Malachy Fortunato and Philip Dingelmann were killed by the same gun, presumably the same killer, fifteen years apart.'

Harper said, 'That's what the evidence says.'

'And that's what Grissom likes to hear,' Catherine said, on her way out. 'Thanks, Harper-I needed this as much as that nap. More!'

Grissom sat behind his desk, munching a turkey-and-Swiss sandwich. He sipped his glass of iced tea, and looked up to see a figure pause in his open doorway-a man maybe six-one in a well-tailored light blue suit, muscularly trim, with blond hair combed slickly back from a high forehead, and a strong, sharp nose, narrow blue eyes . . . and a smile of cobra warmth.

'Special Agent Rick Culpepper,' Grissom said, setting his iced tea carefully back on his desk. 'Up late, or early?'

'How do you stand these hours?' The FBI agent smiled his oily smile. 'With all the people you encounter, I'm complimented you remember me.'

'How could I forget?' Grissom gave the agent a smile that had little to do with the usual reasons for smiling. 'You're the man who tried to get one of my CSIs killed, using her as bait.'

Strolling uninvited into the office, Culpepper said, 'My God, you're still upset about that? Sara Sidle volunteered, and everything came out fine-let it go, Grissom. Get past it.'

'I have trouble getting past you using . . . misusing . . . my people, Culpepper. We're busy here. What do you want?'

'You're takin' a lunch break,' Culpepper said, nodding to the half-eaten sandwich Grissom had put down. 'I won't eat up any of your precious crime-solving time. . . . Relax, buddy. Ever think I might be here to help?'

Bullshit, Grissom thought; but he said nothing. He would let the FBI agent do all the work.

Sitting, Culpepper said, 'Your people ran a print from a shell casing through AFIS.'

'We do that a lot.'

'Yes, and your federal government is glad to be of service.'

'Do you have a specific print in mind?'

Culpepper nodded. 'Related to a recent shooting at a resort hotel-the Beachcomber.'

'We got no match from that.'

'That's right. That's because a little flag went up-AFIS wasn't allowed to make that match-classified information.'

'Is that the federal cooperation you mentioned?'

'The man who belongs to that print is a contract assassin. No one knows what he looks like, or who he is . . .