Double Dealer

Joy'

The new letter from Joy Petty read:

'Dear Marge,

Thanks for the great birthday card. I don't know why you keep sending me money, you know I make plenty. But you're sweet to do it. I hope you've been thinking about our invitation to come over and stay with us for a few weeks. The guy I been living with, Doug, could even drive over and pick you up so you don't have to take the bus. It would be great fun. Please come.

Love, Joy'

'She's older now,' Nick said, 'her handwriting may have changed.'

'Not this much,' Jenny said. 'Just not possible. Over the years our handwriting changes, granted. To varying degrees. But somebody's signature? That's something that people do not drastically change.'

Jenny displayed the two letters side by side on the table. 'Look at the capital 'J' in 'Joy.' '

They moved closer.

'This new one, the Joy Petty letter, the 'J' is extremely cursive. She started at the line and made this huge fuckin' loop that goes over the top line, then the smaller bottom loop that's equally full of itself. See how it goes down, almost all the way to the next line? This is somebody who craves attention-wants to stand out in the crowd.'

Catherine gestured to the older document. 'Tell us about the person behind this other signature.'

Jenny pointed. 'This is a scrawl. Almost looks like a kid did it. Very straight, more like printing than script. No way this is the same person. I don't give a shit how many years you put between 'em.'

She went on to point out the capital 'M' in 'Marge,' which was round and smooth, ' Demonstrating the same pressure all the way through.' The 'M' in 'Mal,' however, was pointed, extra pressure at the joints of the lines.

Jenny shook her head. 'Definitely two different writers.'

Catherine smiled at Nick; Nick smiled at Catherine.

'The documents should be dry now,' Jenny said, heading back over to the original documents. 'Let's have a look.' The expert positioned herself on one side of the table, Nick on the other. Catherine studied the photocopies a few more seconds, then followed, joining Nick on his side of the table.

'You dipped this in Ninhydrin?' Nick asked pointing at the note.

Shaking her head, Jenny said, 'Nope-that's the old mojo.'

Catherine said, 'I remember reading in the Fortunato file that the lab tried that, back in '85, when they first found the note . . . but came up empty.'

'Yes,' Jenny said. 'Though it was good in its day, even then Ninhydrin wasn't always successful. It worked well on amino acids, left on paper by people who touched it. But this new stuff, physical developer, it's the shit- works on salts left behind.'

Nick was nodding, remembering something from a forensics journal article he'd read a while back. 'This is the stuff the British came up with, right?'

'Right,' Jenny said.

'Oh yeah,' Catherine said, 'finds way more prints than Ninhydrin.'

'We've got something,' Jenny said. 'Look here.'

The expert held up the original note: a black print, the side of the author's palm presumably, and several fingerprints in various places, dotted the page.

Jenny grinned. 'Looks like the writer tried to wipe the paper clean of prints. These shit-for-brains never seem to grasp fingerprints are ninety-nine-and-a-half percent water. They're in the document, not on it.'

Fewer fingerprints showed up on the new letter, but there were some to play with.

'Your fingerprint tech'll tell you these two prints don't match,' Jenny predicted. 'The letters were written by different people, and the fingerprints will prove it, as well as the handwriting differences. Additionally, the writing style-the amount of schooling indicated-also suggests two authors; but that's a more subjective call.'

Catherine looked at Nick. 'So, now what are you thinking?'

'We already knew that Fortunato didn't run off with the stripper.'

'Right.'

'We also believe that she's still alive and well and living in L.A. as Joy Petty.'

Nodding, Catherine said, 'Yes, and we should know more about that when we get back and talk to Grissom.'

Nick got up, pacing slowly. 'So we have a forged note from Joy to our victim, right around the time of his murder . . . but why? Why was such a note written?'

'Whoever hired the killing planted it, obviously,' Catherine said. 'And it worked-Fortunato's disappearance was dismissed as just another guy with a seven-year itch that got scratched by running off with a younger woman.'

Nick stopped pacing, spread his hands. 'So-mob guys hire the killing, and plant the note . . . or have it planted.'

Catherine shook her head. 'Doesn't make any sense.'

'Why not?'

'Okay, look at it from the mob end of the telescope. You don't want anybody to know you killed this guy-you don't even want it officially known the welsher is dead. You instruct your hired assassin to hide the body where it won't be found for years, if at all, then you write this letter to make it appear Fortunato left town with his girlfriend.'

'Yeah, right,' Nick said. 'That all hangs together.'

Catherine smiled. 'Does it? If you do all that, why do you allow your assassin to sign the body? Give it the old trademark double tap?'

'Why not?'

'Because if the body is found, you know damn well it's going to look like a mob hit to the cops. What did it look like to us?'

'But the Deuce, he's a mob hitter . . .'

'No, Nicky,' Catherine said. 'He's a freelancer. His best customers are organized crime types; but they're not necessarily his only customers.'

Nick was seeing it now, shaking his head, disappointed in himself. 'Grissom always says, 'assume nothing,' and what did we do? Assumed it was the mob.'

'If it wasn't,' Catherine said, 'it was a perfect set-up for anybody who wanted Fortunato dead, for personal reasons or business or any motive. Already owing bookies out east, Fortunato was a sure bet to have a contract put out on him, if the mobbed-up casino owners knew he was embezzling from the casino. Instant blame.'

'If somebody else hired the Deuce-who was it?'

'Ever notice every time we answer one question on this case,' Catherine said, 'we end up asking ourselves another, brand-new one?' She turned to the document examiner. 'Jenny, how much writing would you need to find a match on these two letters?'

Jenny's answer was automatic. 'When you get a suspect, don't take a handwriting sample-that's for shit. Get me a sample they've already written, grocery list, anything.'

'And if we can't?'

'Then, what the hell-get a new sample.' The petite woman shrugged. 'There are some things you can't disguise.'

'How big a sample?' Catherine asked.

'Couple of sentences, at least. More is better.'

'Usually is,' Nick said.

'Thanks, Jenny,' Catherine said. 'You're the best.'

'Not hardly,' she said. 'My father was.'

Catherine nodded. 'We'll be back when we've got something.'

Jenny returned to some waiting work. 'I'll be here till five, and you can page me after that-long as you don't need me tonight.'