'I don't
The creased face under the trim crew cut tightened with interest. 'How?'
'Her mail. You see all those piles here and there and everywhere?'
'She's a pack rat-so what?'
'So back on that writing table, on top of one of those piles, was a letter from a 'Joy Petty.' What do you suppose the odds are that she knows a Joy Petty who isn't also the Joy Starr whose real name is Monica Petty?'
O'Riley's eyebrows had climbed. 'I think the odds are we're goin' right back up there, right now.'
'Can we do that?'
'Was the letter out in plain sight?'
'Oh yeah.'
'Then watch and learn, bucko.'
O'Riley was out of the SUV and going back up the sidewalk before Nick could pull the keys from the ignition. The CSI trotted to catch up, the pissed-off detective already ringing the bell, then throwing open the screen door and knocking on the inside door before Nick even got to his side. Just then, Marge Kostichek jerked the door open.
'What now?' she bellowed. 'We already gave!'
'That's what you think, lady.' Getting right in her face, O'Riley bellowed back, 'Why the hell did you lie to us?'
She backed up, inadvertently making room for both men to re-enter the house.
O'Riley glared at her, saying to Nick. 'Show me.'
Pulling on a latex glove even as he moved, Nick went to the writing desk and picked up the top letter on the stack of mail.
'Hey,' she shouted, 'you can't do that! That's private property! Where's your warrant?'
'Evidence in plain sight, ma'am,' O'Riley said. 'We don't need a warrant.'
Nick came over to the hair-curled harridan and held up the letter from Joy Petty for her to see. 'You want to explain this to us?'
The old woman took a step back, then stumbled over to her Barcalounger and sat heavily down, with an inadvertant whoopee-cushion effect. It might have been funny if she hadn't been crying.
Sara Sidle and ponytailed Detective Erin Conroy caught up with Warrick in the lobby of the Wells Fargo branch on South Nellis Boulevard. The air conditioning seemed to be set just below freezing; even though it was July in the desert, the tellers all wore sweaters.
'I've got another shot at getting our guy,' Warrick said.
Professional in a white pants suit, Conroy lifted an eyebrow. 'Is this going to be like the mailbox place?'
He looked for evidence of sarcasm in her voice and didn't find any. 'I hope not, but who knows.'
'Nice piece of work, Warrick,' Sara said, meaning the ATM machine.
'Thanks. I haven't been this lucky in a casino in a long time.'
A plumpish woman of forty sat behind the receptionist's desk talking on the phone. When they approached, she held up a finger: she'd be with them momentarily. . . . At least that's what Sara hoped she meant. In her lightweight short-sleeve top, Sara felt like she was standing in a meat locker.
Finally, the receptionist hung up the phone and turned to Warrick as if the two women weren't even there.
But it was Erin Conroy who held up her badge, and said, 'We need to speak to whoever is in charge of ATM transactions.'
The woman checked a list on the pullout shelf of her desk. 'That would be Ms. Washington.' She picked up the phone, pressed four numbers and said, 'Ms. Washington, there are three police officers here to speak to you.' She listened for a moment, hung up, and said to Warrick, 'She'll be right with you.'
Sara was seething but she didn't bother to correct the receptionist's description of all three of them as police officers.
They'd waited less than a minute before Sara heard the staccato rhythm of high heels on the tile floor to her right and behind her. Turning, she saw a woman in a conservative black suit approaching-with expertly coifed black hair, jade eyes, and a narrow, porcelain face. The woman held out her hand to Conroy and offered all three a wide smile. 'Good morning-I'm Carrie Washington. May I help you, Officers?'
Conroy showed her credentials and shook the woman's hand. 'I'm from Homicide, and Warrick Brown and Sara Sidle, here, are from the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau. We need to talk to you about one of your ATM customers.'
'Fine. Quite a crowd of you, for one customer.'
'Overlapping interests in our investigation,' Conroy said.
Ms. Washington clearly didn't understand a word of that-Sara barely did herself-but the woman, crisply cooperative, said, 'Won't you follow me to my office?'
In the smallish suite at the far end of a wide hallway off the lobby, Carrie Washington offered them seats in the three chairs that faced her large oak desk. A computer sat on the credenza next to it, a potted plant perched in the corner, and two picture frames were placed at the edge of her neat desk, facing away from them.
'Now,' she said, steepling her fingers. 'How may I help you?'
Conroy nodded to Warrick to take the lead. He did: 'We need to know the name of one of your ATM customers.'
Ms. Washington's expression conveyed her discomfort. 'I'm afraid that would be-'
'It's quite legal,' the homicide detective said, and withdrew the document from her shoulder-slung purse, and tossed the warrant onto the desk. 'Judge Galvin has already authorized the action.'
The woman put on a pair of half-glasses, read the warrant. 'Tell me what you need.'
'The ATM at the Beachcomber,' Warrick said, 'that's yours?'
Ms. Washington frowned thoughtfully. 'I can find out-but I assume you already know as much, or you wouldn't be here in such an impressive array.'
'It is your ATM,' Conroy said.
'Five weeks ago,' Warrick said, reading her the date from his notes, 'your machine was accessed at five thirty-nine A.M. Can you tell me who did that?'
Typing the information into her computer, Ms. Washington said, 'You're quite sure about the time?'
Warrick nodded. 'Yes, ma'am.'
'This is going to take a few minutes.'
Conroy said, 'That's fine. We'll wait.'
O'Riley sat across from Marge Kostichek at the plain wooden table in the center of the interrogation room. She was no longer a sarcastic handful, rather a morose, monosyllabic interrogation subject.
Also in the cubicle were two other chairs, one on each side of the table, a digital video camera trained on the woman and an audio tape for backup on the table. A large wall mirror-nobody was kidding anybody-was really a window with one-way glass, on the other side of which were Grissom, Catherine, and Nick, who had already filled his boss and co-worker in on why he and O'Riley thought it best to bring the former bar owner in for more questioning.
The room they were in was small with no furniture. They stood there watching the interview in the other room.
'He's not getting anywhere with her,' Grissom said.
'Maybe there's nowhere to get to,' Catherine offered.
'No way,' Nick said. 'She knows something. That letter can't be a coincidence.'
'Please,' Grissom said. 'Not the 'c' word.'
Catherine seemed lost in thought; then she asked Nick, 'Where's that letter now?'
'On top of my desk-why?'
She arched an eyebrow toward Nick, and Grissom noted it as well, as she said, 'Remember the box of her husband's personal effects Mrs. Fortunato turned over to us?'
'Of course,' Nick said.
