Double Dealer

'I didn't see him good at all.'

'Think, Bobby. Close your eyes and visualize.'

LaFay did as he was told, his brow furrowing. 'White guy.'

'Good. What else do you see, Bobby?'

'Older guy.'

'Older?'

'Forty maybe, maybe even older.'

Feeling suddenly ancient, Grissom nodded his encouragement. 'Anything else? Scars? Tattoos?'

The waiter shook his head. 'Nope.'

'What was he wearing? Shut your eyes, Bobby. Visualize.'

'. . . Jacket-a suit coat.' His eyes popped open and he grinned. 'I remember that! 'cause afterward, when I had time to think about it, I wondered why anybody would wear a suit coat in Vegas in July.'

'Good, good-anything else?'

'Nope. Mr. Grissom, I can close my eyes till tomorrow this time, and I won't see anything else.'

Grissom granted the waiter a smile, touched his arm encouragingly. 'Mr. LaFay, do you think you could identify the killer?'

The waiter thought for a moment, looked at Grissom and shook his head slowly. 'No. . . . That good I can't visualize.'

Grissom and Brass thanked him, then rejoined Warrick and Sara. They found Warrick kneeling over something on the floor as, nearby, Sara carefully bagged a piece of tomato.

'Got anything?' Grissom asked.

'I've got a footprint in the blood,' Warrick said, 'but it's smeared, like the guy slipped trying to take off.'

Carefully stepping around Sara, Grissom moved in next to Warrick and followed Warrick's gaze.

Warrick was right: the footprint was useless. Turning on his haunches and lowering his head, Grissom carefully studied the hallway. 'Look,' he said pointing another three feet down the hall, behind Warrick. 'Another one.'

Warrick got to it, checked it, then turned back to Grissom. 'Smeared too.'

His head still bent down near the floor, Grissom said, 'Go another yard.'

'I don't see anything.'

'Ever use Leuco Crystal Violet?'

Warrick shrugged. 'Yeah, sure, but it's been a while.'

Grissom grinned. 'Now's your chance to get back in practice.'

Brass walked up as Warrick withdrew a spray bottle from his black field-kit bag. 'What's that?'

'See the spot on the carpeting?' Grissom asked.

The detective shrugged. 'All I see is a dirty carpet.'

'There's a bloody footprint there.'

'Really.'

'Yes-we just can't see it.'

Brass frowned. 'A bloody footprint we can't see?'

'The red cells have all been rubbed off the shoe, but the hemoglobin and white cells remain.'

Warrick carefully sprayed an area of the rug and picked up the lecture. 'This is Leuco Crystal Violet-a powder. But here today on the Home Shopping Network, we've added it to a solution of sulfosalicylic acid, sodium acetate, and hydrogen peroxide.'

With a small chuckle, Brass asked, 'If it's going to explode, you mind giving me a heads up?'

As the solution began to work, Grissom jumped back in. 'It's going to work like a dye and bring out the footprint in that dirty carpet.'

'No way.'

'Way,' Grissom said as the spot on the floor turned purple, showing the outline of a running shoe.

'About a size eleven, I'd say,' Warrick said. 'Now we photograph it.'

Brass asked, 'Can you match that to anything?'

Grissom nodded. 'Once we get it back to the lab, we'll tell you exactly what kind of shoe that print belongs to. After the database tells us, that is. Then, when we get a suspect, we'll be able to compare this to a shoe of his and give you an exact match.'

'Hey, Grissom,' Sara called. 'All I'm finding is pasta and a salad. And let me tell you, the buffet at Caesar's is better.'

'Keep digging, anyway. And, Warrick?'

Warrick's head bobbed up. 'Yeah, Gris?'

'Make sure you do the stairwell-that's the way Elvis left the building.'

Warrick nodded.

'So-mob hit?' Brass asked.

Grissom led Brass back up the hall toward the elevators. 'Too soon to tell.'

'Robbery gone wrong?'

Grissom ignored the question. 'Let's go see the videotape.'

'Go ahead,' Brass said. 'I'll join you after I head upstairs and talk to that guy first.'

Grissom's eyes tightened. 'Our FBI man with the cannon?'

'Precisely.'

'The tape can wait. I'll come with you.'

'Fine. You interface so well with the FBI, after all.'

Upstairs, Brass led the way out of the elevator. Grissom slid in next to him as they moved down the hall toward room 813. Pulling his service revolver from its holster, Brass signaled for Grissom to hang back out of the alcove.

Frowning, Grissom stopped short of the doorway as Brass moved into the alcove and knocked on the door with his left hand.

'Just a sec,' said a muffled voice beyond the door.

His feet set, Brass leveled his .38 at the door, which thankfully had no peephole. Peeking around the corner, Grissom watched as the door cracked slowly open. He saw the big man in boxer shorts-and the monstrous automatic in his beefy hand.

And Grissom said, 'Gun!'

Brass ducked out of the alcove, plastered himself to the wall, away from the door, and yelled, 'Police! Put that gun down, and open the door, and put your hands up-high!'

Silence.

'Do it now!' Brass said.

The door opened and the big man-hands way up-stepped back. His expression was one of alarm, and he was nodding toward the nearby bed, on which the pistol had been tossed.

'I'm unarmed!' he said. 'Unarmed . . .'

Brass forced the big man up against a wall.

'Spread 'em.'

He did as he was told and Grissom eased into the room behind the pair as Brass frisked the man.

'Why the gun, sir?' Grissom asked, his voice cool.

Over his shoulder, the big man said, 'I deliver jewelry. It's for protection.'

Brass jumped in. 'Did you know a murder was committed downstairs this morning?'

The man looked thunderstruck. 'No! Hell no! You don't . . . you don't think I did it?'

Grissom moved forward. 'Let's slow down for a moment. What's your name, sir?'

'Ron Orrie.'

'ID?' Brass asked.

Orrie nodded toward the nightstand. 'My wallet's right there.'

'Do you have a permit for the pistol?'

'In the wallet, too.'