Double Dealer

Hoskins's voice floated in from the back of the house. 'What is it, Annie?'

Mrs. Fortunato turned and, in a loud hard voice, called, 'Catherine Willows is here-she needs our fingerprints!' Then she turned back to Catherine and rage tightened the haggard features. 'You think one of us did it? . . . hell, I didn't even know Gerry then. He didn't even live in this town.'

The awkwardness of it lay heavy on the shoulders of the already-tired Catherine. 'It's just a formality really, to make it easier . . . you know, to eliminate you from the others.'

But the more Mrs. Fortunato thought about it, the more worked up she got. 'You think I killed my own husband? I thought you were my friend.'

'Mrs. Fortunato . . .'

Smoky spittle flew. 'You bitch! How dare you come around here?'

Catherine held up her hands, tried to explain. 'Honestly, Mrs. Fortunato, I'm not even considering the possibility that you killed your husband,' she lied. At this point, she only knew she didn't want to leave without those prints. 'But when we catch who did this terrible thing, their lawyer is going to be looking for any way to get his client off-including implicating either you or Gerry in the murder.'

Mrs. Fortunato stood there frozen; she had been listening, at least. Catherine, with relief, watched as the woman's anger evaporated.

Hoskins came in from the bedroom, still pulling on a shirt, as he tried to zip his jeans with one hand. 'You all right?' he asked.

Catherine wondered if she'd interrupted something-dessert, after the macaroni and cheese, maybe.

'She wants to take our fingerprints, yours and mine, she says.'

'What shit is-'

'So that if they catch whoever killed Mal, their lawyer won't be able to implicate us.'

They both looked at Catherine now-suspicion in their eyes.

Wearily, she leveled with them. 'Look-it's my job to find out who murdered Malachy. And you're both going to be considered suspects, now that his body has finally been found.'

'So you are just a bitch,' the woman said.

'Listen to me-please.'

Hoskins wrapped a protective arm around Mrs. Fortunato. 'How in hell you could ever think . . .'

'I'm not your friend,' Catherine snapped. 'And I don't have an opinion one way or the other. I follow the evidence-that's my job. That's why I was digging in your driveway last night-that wasn't for fun. The more evidence I have, whether it convicts or exonerates, gets me closer to finding out who murdered Malachy Fortunato, and bringing that person or persons to justice. Not just the hired killer, but the person-or persons-who hired him . . . whether it was the mob, you, or someone else altogether.'

Stunned, the pair just stared at her. Hoskins kept his arm around Mrs. Fortunato, but said, finally, 'How can we help?'

Sighing, relieved but weary, she started over: 'I need fingerprints from both of you.'

The man nodded. 'Can you do it here, or do we have to go to the station?'

From her field kit, Catherine removed a portable fingerprint kit. 'We can do it here.' She wanted to kick herself for botching this so badly. It shouldn't have gone like this; thank God Grissom wasn't around.

Mrs. Fortunato seemed embarrassed. 'I'm sorry for calling you . . . for what I said.'

Managing to summon up a gentle smile, Catherine said, 'I'm sorry if I misled you in any way. I know this isn't how you thought things would go . . . but I have to investigate everything, every aspect-good or bad, comfortable or uncomfortable.'

'I know, I know. It's just all been so . . . emotional. Gerry and I are both on edge. I'm sure you folks are too.'

Every day, Grissom would remind them, we meet people-on the worst day of their lives.

Catherine printed them quickly, now in a rush to get the hell out of there. She had just opened new wounds in this old affair, and she wanted to slip away as swiftly as possible.

As she finished and handed Hoskins a paper towel, to wipe off the ink, he said, 'Thank you,' and Catherine said, 'No, thank you, Mr. Hoskins.'

He walked her to the door. 'Ms. Willows.'

'Yes?'

'One favor?'

'Try.'

He swallowed. 'Catch the son of a bitch.'

Her eyes met his and held. 'Oh, Mr. Hoskins. I will. I will.'

13

IN HENDERSON, WARRICK-WITH CONROY RIDING IN FRONT, Sara in back-guided the Tahoe down Fresh Pond Court, looking at street numbers; this was a walled (not gated) housing development, designed for, if not the rich, definitely the well-off. When the SUV pulled up at the house in question, Brass's Taurus was already parked in front, Grissom in the passenger seat. The two CSIs and the homicide detective got out and jogged up to the unmarked vehicle, Warrick taking the lead.

The stucco ranch was the color the local real estate agents called 'desert cream,' and sported the obligatory tile roof, with a two-car attached garage and a well-manicured lawn. Not many houses in the area could boast so richly green a lawn, or even grass for that matter; most front yards were either dirt or rock. This one rivaled a golf- course green, but instead of a flagged hole, a single sapling rose right in the middle. The rambling house had a quiet dignity that said 'money'-no, Warrick thought, it whispered the word.

'Somebody made the American dream pay off,' Warrick, leaning against the roof of the Taurus, said to his boss. 'You been up to the door yet?'

His expression blank, Grissom still had his eyes on the place. He said, 'When we got here. Nobody home. Where have you been?'

A sheepish half-grin tugged a corner of Warrick's mouth. 'We kinda got lost.'

'How many CSIs does it take to screw in a light bulb?' Brass asked, sitting behind the wheel.

'Two and a homicide detective, apparently,' Sara said. 'Conroy's with us.'

'Hey, it's a new neighborhood,' Warrick said. 'Last time I was out this way, it was scrub brush and prairie dogs.'

'Skip it,' Grissom said. 'Nobody home anyway.'

Conroy had gone around the other side of the vehicle, to talk to Brass; she was asking him, 'You want me to check around back?'

'We don't have a warrant,' Brass said. 'We're gonna step carefully on this-case like this, you don't want to risk a technicality.'

'Almost looks deserted,' Sara, sidling up next to Warrick, asked her seated boss. 'Nobody home, or does maybe nobody live here?'

A dry wind rustled the leaves of the front yard sapling.

'Furniture visible through the front windows,' Grissom said, 'and the power company, water company, and county clerk all agree-this is the residence of one Barry Hyde.'

'You don't let any grass grow,' Warrick said.

'Except for occasionally getting lost, neither do you.'

Warrick took that as the compliment it was.

'In fact, I think we've earned a break,' Grissom said.

'Huh?' Sara said.

'I think we should go check out the new video rentals,' Grissom said.

Warrick, pushing off from the roof of the Taurus, said, 'Might be some interesting new releases, at that.'

Conroy stayed with the Taurus, at the residence, while Brass piled into the Tahoe, in back with Sara, with Warrick and Grissom in front.

From the backseat Brass said, 'If you'd like me to drive, I do know the way.'