She smiled. 'But then, Culpepper is a real son of a bitch.'
Grissom managed to keep a straight face. 'Yes, he is.'
In a nicely padded desk-type chair, Warrick sat next to a security guard in front of the wall of Beachcomber monitors. The guard, a short Hispanic guy in his early twenties, had just loaded the tape that Warrick brought in, showing Peter Randall's back at the poker machine, and Philip Dingelmann's reaction to seeing Randall. Then Dingelmann disappeared around the corner, Randall got dragged back to the machine, pulled his card, then followed, disappearing around the corner as well.
They reran the tape and Warrick pointed at Randall. 'I want to see anything else you might have with this guy in it.'
The guard nodded. 'He's here nearly every Monday and Wednesday.'
Warrick's pulse skipped. 'What was your name again?'
'Ricky.'
'Hey, Ricky. I'm Warrick.'
Pleased, the guard said, 'Hey, Warrick.'
'Tell me more about this guy, this regular.'
'Well, he didn't come this Wednesday, but he's a guy who likes the kind of off-times. Even a big place like this, you get to spot the regulars-particularly when studying these monitors for hours and hours.'
Dingelmann had been murdered Monday morning; and 'Peter Randall' had missed his usual Wednesday round of poker-machine playing.
'This guy, Peter Randall, he's a regular?'
'I mean, I don't know the guy's name, but he's been around a lot-but just Mondays and Wednesday, early hours, like I said, off-times, slow times. Some people don't like a crowded casino.'
Warrick had never had a preference, as long as the dice were rolling. 'Ricky, can you show me some more tapes of Mondays and Wednesdays?'
'Warrick, don't get too excited. I don't wanna get your hopes up, man. You're not going to see his face on camera any other day either.'
'Why not?'
Nodding again, the guard said, 'I noticed him, all right? But he's pretty careful.'
'If you never saw his face, how do you recognize him?'
'I don't know, man-watch these monitors long enough, you get a feel for it. I mean, the back of him always looks the same, right?'
'Oh-kay,' Warrick said.
'I mean his height, shape of his head, haircut, even the style of clothes . . . you just start to read people. Know 'em.'
'Ricky, you ever get tired of this job, come see me where I work. I may have somethin' for you.'
Warrick and his new best friend looked at a tape from the previous Wednesday, about the same time. Again, Randall sat at the poker machine, his back to the camera, obviously wearing a different sports coat. He never turned toward the camera and when they tried other cameras in the casino, he managed to avoid those too.
'How does a man come in here every day and never get his face on a camera?'
Ricky shrugged. 'Beats me.'
Warrick rolled his eyes. The guard had been right though, Randall came in every Monday and Wednesday; and his hair, frame, style of dress, made it easy enough to spot him, when you knew what you were looking for. They watched tapes for the Monday before the murder, and of the week before that, loading multiple tape decks of multiple angles on the casino, and Randall always showed up.
He didn't always play the same poker machine, but he never went to the tables where he would have to interact with a live dealer. In fact, he usually stuck to the row of poker machines closer to the back door. Monday, Wednesday, week after week, he came. He played for about two hours, then he left. Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost. Either way, the next Wednesday, the next Monday, there he was again. And never once did the son of a bitch show his face on any camera.
Todd Oswalt, the slot manager, stuck his head in once to ask how it was going.
'We're still working,' Warrick said. 'Still looking. Ricky's a big help-Ricky's the man.'
Ricky beamed, and Oswalt said, 'Glad to hear it-was that address a help?'
'Everything's a help, sir. But the maildrop he already abandoned. And the address he gave those people was for a street that doesn't exist.'
Blond Oswalt in his navy blue suit shook his head and tsk-tsked. 'Well, best of luck, Detective Brown.'
Warrick didn't correct him. 'I'm about due for some luck, sir.'
Oswalt ducked back out.
They were five weeks back in the tapes now and Warrick wondered how many of these he should watch before he gave up. In truth, he wondered how many more of these he could take. It was like watching this bastard's boring life in reverse. On Wednesday of that week, Randall got up from his machine and disappeared off the screen. Warrick looked at the camera pointing up the main aisle-no Randall.
'Whoa, whoa! Where'd he go?'
Ricky shook his head as if he had been daydreaming. He swiftly scanned all the screens, finally spotting their man in the frame in the lower right hand corner.
'He's over there,' Ricky said, pointing. 'Just using the ATM, is all.'
'Stop the tape,' Warrick said quietly.
The guard was back in his own world and didn't hear.
Warrick said it again, louder. 'Stop the tape, Ricky. Run it back.'
Ricky did as told.
'That's it. We got him. Run it back.'
Sitting up a little straighter, the guard again ran the tape back. Then, in slow-motion, ran it forward. They watched as Randall-back to the camera-used the ATM again.
'Yeah,' Warrick said. 'Yeah! What bank owns that ATM?'
Ricky shrugged. 'I don't use the ATM here. I'm sure Mr. Oswalt would know.'
'Get him. Please.'
It took the slot host almost ten minutes to return to the security room, but Warrick didn't care-he had a clue.
Finally, Oswalt trudged in. 'Yes, Detective Brown, what is it?'
'What bank owns this ATM?' Warrick asked, pointing at the frame.
'Uh, Wells Fargo. Why?'
'Mr. Oswalt, thanks.' Warrick patted the guard on the shoulder. 'Ricky,
'Hey, I remember that show,' Ricky said, with a grin.
But Warrick was already gone.
11
NICK LEANED OVER TO OPEN THE DOOR FOR SERGEANT O'Riley, who hopped into the Tahoe for the ride to Marge Kostichek's. As they rolled across town, O'Riley made a point of studying the features of the SUV. 'Nice ride,' he said at last.
Nick nodded.
O'Riley shifted his beefy frame in the seat. 'Lot better than those for-shit Tauruses they make us drive.'
Stokes refused to rise to the bait. Though the crime lab unit had helped Homicide solve numerous cases, O'Riley and many of his brethren referred to the CSIs as 'the nerd squad' behind their backs. Harboring a feeling that down deep O'Riley longed for the good old days when a detective's best friend was a length of rubber hose, Nick asked, businesslike, 'What was that address again?'
Pointing up ahead, O'Riley said, 'Two more houses-there on the left.'
Pulling up in front of a tiny bungalow with peeling pale yellow paint and two brown dead bushes that needed removing, Nick parked the Tahoe facing the wrong way. The whole neighborhood looked as though it could use a coat of paint and some TLC. The scraggly grass was almost as brown as the bushes, and as they got closer Nick
