Double Dealer

Nick opened the door of the SUV and unbuckled his seatbelt.

'Let's wait for O'Riley,' she said reasonably. 'How long can it take him to get here?'

'Why wait?'

'We should wait for O'Riley. We don't have a warrant.'

But then they were going up the walk, and were at the front door, where Nick knocked. He threw her one of those dazzlers. 'It'll be fine.'

This is wrong, Catherine thought; she was the senior investigator on the unit-she should put her foot down. But the truth was, she was as anxious as Nick to follow this lead; and she knew that once O'Riley got here, she herself would take the investigative lead, anyway.

So why this apprehension, these butterflies?

No answer to Nick's knock, so he tried again and called, 'Ms. Kostichek? It's Nick from the crime lab!'

Through the curtained window, Catherine saw a figure move in the gloomy grayness, someone with something in his or her hand-was that shape . . . a gun?

She shoved Nick off the porch to the left, her momentum carrying her with him just as a bullet exploded through the door and sailed off into the night. Another round made its small awful thunder and a second shot drilled through the door, at a lower trajectory, and spanged off the sidewalk.

Catherine and Nick lay sprawled in the dead brown bushes to the left of the front door.

'You all right?' she asked.

Shaken, startled, Nick managed, 'I think so. How did you . . .'

She rolled off the shrubbery, pistol in her hand-she didn't even remember drawing it-and she said to Nick, 'Head for the truck-I got your back . . . stay low.' She lay on the lawn, gun trained on the front door.

Nick, shaken, was clearly afraid, but concerned for her. 'I'll cover you. Never mind the Tahoe-just get the hell out of here.'

'Damnit, Nick-we don't leave, we contain the scene. Get behind the truck, and call this in. Now, move!'

This time Nick didn't argue-he rolled out of the bushes, got to his knees, then blasted off like a sprinter coming out of the blocks, keeping low as he raced across the front yard.

Another shot splintered through the door and Catherine wanted to return fire, but who would she be shooting at? She couldn't blindly shoot at the house.

'Put your weapon down!' she yelled, remaining on her stomach, on the grass, handgun aimed at the doorway. 'Come out with your hands high, and empty!'

Nothing.

Nick was already behind the Tahoe, his own pistol in hand. A distant siren wailed and Catherine knew help was on the way. Some neighbor had called 911.

'Come on, Cath,' Nick yelled. 'I've got you . . .'

But a bullet cracked the night and shattered its way through the window and smashed the driver's side window of the Tahoe.

Nick ducked and Catherine took the opportunity to roll left, come up running, and plaster herself against the side of the house. Her heart pounding, gunshots echoing in her ringing ears, she glanced out front to make sure Nick was all right. She couldn't see him.

'Nicky-you okay?' she yelled.

'Peachy!'

The siren grew. Sliding along the clapboard side of the bungalow, she made her way toward the back. Only two windows were on this side of the house, the living room picture window, and one in what might be a back bedroom. She tried to see in the edge of the shattered picture window, around the border of the curtain, but it was just too damn dark. She was moving along the side of the house when she heard a car squeal to a halt in front- O'Riley.

'What the hell!' O'Riley was saying, and Nicky's voice, softer, the words not making their way to her. Then another three shots cracked from out front-O'Riley drawing fire now.

She took a hesitant step around the corner. If she could slip in through the back door, maybe she could get the drop on the old woman-if that was who'd been firing on them. Ducking down below a window, Catherine took a second step, then the back door flew open and she froze as a tall figure-male figure-in head-to-toe black bolted out the door and sprinted across the yard. Her pistol came up automatically, but she saw no weapon in the man's hands and did not fire.

She took off after him.

The perp ran with the easy grace of an athlete, but Catherine managed to keep pace with him for half a block before he vaulted a chain link fence, stopping for a split second on the other side, then speeding across the yard, jumping the fence on the other side before disappearing into the night.

'Damnit,' she said, stopped at the first fence. She holstered the weapon, and walked back to the house, still trying to catch her breath.

When she got back out front, she found O'Riley pacing in the yard, talking to two uniformed officers, whose black-and-white at the curb, with its longbar, painted the night blue and red.

'Where's Nick?' she asked him.

O'Riley pointed. 'Inside. . . . The woman's dead.'

'What?'

He shook his head. 'It's ugly in there, Catherine-double-tapped, just like Fortunato and Dingelmann.'

She filled him in quickly, about the perp's escape, and he turned to the uniformed men, to start the search, and she went inside to help Nick process the scene.

Marge Kostichek lay facedown on the shabby living room rug, a large purple welt on her left cheek, her eyes mercifully closed. A gag made from a scarf encircled her head, blocking her mouth. A large crimson stain stood out where her mouth was. So much blood was on the floor, it was hard to find a place to stand without compromising the evidence.

'It's him,' Nick said, his complexion a sickly white. 'He got to Kostichek before we could. He even cut off her fingertips, like Fortunato. Two of them anyway-we must have interrupted him.' He swallowed thickly. 'Judging from the gag, I think she bit through her tongue.'

They heard another vehicle squeal to a halt outside. Within seconds, Grissom-his black attire not unlike the perp's-stood in the doorway.

'What were you doing here without O'Riley?' he demanded.

'O'Riley was on his way with the search warrant,' Catherine said, covering. 'We had no way of knowing the Deuce would be here.'

'Tell me,' Grissom said, and Catherine filled him in, in detail.

Then Grissom took a deep breath. 'All right,' he said. 'Let's do the scene and see if maybe we can find a way to get this guy.'

Catherine pointed to the floor. 'If he's still using the same gun, these shell casings will be a great start.'

Expressing his agreement with a nod, he jerked his cell phone out and punched speed-dial. '. . . Jim, get over to Hyde's house, now. Someone just killed Marge Kostichek. . . . I know-maybe he's on his way home right now. . . . Not yet, we're doing that now.' He hit END, then turned to Catherine and Nick. 'Find us what we need.'

Catherine was already bagging shell casings.

Grissom, clearly pissed, said, 'I don't like murders on my watch.'

At the front doorway, O'Riley-keeping out of the way of the crime scene investigation-called Catherine over. Grissom came along.

O'Riley said to them, 'I got a little good news-my man Tavo in L.A. just interviewed Joy Petty.'

Catherine and Grissom exchanged glances, the latter prompting, 'And?'

'Seems the Kostichek woman took Joy in as a runaway, raised her like a daughter. Joy says her 'mom' considered Malachy Fortunato a 'bad influence'-you know, a married man, a degenerate gambler, with the mob nipping at his heels. After Malachy disappeared, Joy says she was afraid the mob had killed him, so she took off, to protect herself.'

Grissom asked, 'Where is Joy now?'