'Still there at the stationhouse with Tavo-my LAPD contact.'
'Have him take another run at her-but this time tell her about Marge's murder.'
Catherine glanced at Grissom quizzically.
'Yeah?' O'Riley said. 'Why?'
But now Catherine had caught up with her boss, saying, 'Because Joy might stop protecting her mom, if she knows her mom is dead . . . particularly if she knows how her mom died.'
O'Riley looked from one of them to the other. 'No details spared?'
'None,' Grissom said. 'The LAPD uses digital tape for their interviews, right?'
'I think so. I mean, we do.'
'Good. Tell your man Tavo I'm gonna want this interview sent up to our server, toot sweet, so we can download it.'
O'Riley nodded and ambled out.
Grissom pitched in with them, as they looked for footprints first. Nick used the electrostatic dust print lifter and pulled up a running-shoe print from the linoleum floor in the kitchen. Next they photographed the body, the living room, the kitchen and an open drawer that Catherine found in a back bedroom.
With Grissom's help, they fingerprinted everything the killer might have touched. While Nick did the flat surfaces, Catherine used Mikrosil to print the doorknobs, but she had seen the killer wearing gloves when she chased him. She didn't expect to get much and they didn't. She bagged all of Marge's shoes so they could later prove that none of them matched the print they got from the kitchen. Catherine found nothing in her search of the backyard or the alley. Then, shining her mini-flash on the top of the chain link fence, she saw something glimmer.
Moving closer, she found a few strands of black fiber and a small patch of blood. She snapped some photos and then, using a pair of wire cutters, snipped two of the ends off the top of the fence and deposited them in evidence bags.
She shared this with Grissom, who had spent much of his time in the house supervising their work, but also snooping around on his own.
'Come with me,' Grissom said, and in the kitchen he pointed out a knife almost out of its holder on the counter, and, on the floor, a few drops of blood and some strands of gray hair.
Then Catherine followed Grissom into the living room, where he pointed out a suspiciously clear area on the cluttered writing desk-had something been taken?
Now Grissom was staring, apparently at the wall.
'You think you know how this went down,' Catherine said, knowing that look.
'Yes,' he said.
The Deuce knew they would never let up now. All he could do was cover his tracks as much as possible. He'd seen the article in the Las Vegas Sun and knew they had stumbled onto Fortunato's mummified body. If the cops had that, how long until they found the woman?
The old woman didn't think he knew about the younger one, but he did. It was his business to know. The stripper had been sleeping with the mark, so damn right he knew about her. According to the phone book, the old woman, Kostichek, still lived where she always had. That made it easier. He had no idea where the stripper was, but he would find out. That was part of the reason for his visit to the old woman.
He parked a couple of blocks away in the parking lot of a grocery store, no point in getting careless now. Taking his time, he walked a block and a half before cutting up the alley behind her house. Even though the sun had started to set, it still beat down on him, his black clothes absorbing the heat like a sponge, and he felt the sweat beginning to pool at the small of his back, behind his knees, and under his arms. A lighter color would have been cooler, but he knew he'd be here past dark and he might want to leave without being seen, so he wore the black.
He came up behind the house, pulling on black leather gloves as he edged closer. Looking around carefully, he tried to make sure no one saw him as he took the silencer from his pocket and screwed it on the handgun. Then he knocked lightly on her back door, stepping to one side so she would have to open both the inside door and the screen to see him. Reaching around, he knocked again, louder this time.
'Jesus jones, I'm coming!' she yelled.
The woman opened the door, said, 'Who's there?' and then opened the screen and saw him.
She tried to pull the door shut, but he was much stronger, and jammed himself into the frame. Ducking back inside, she tried to close the inner door in his face, but again he overpowered her. She fell back against the stove, turned and reached for a knife from the block on the counter. He pressed the silenced snout of the automatic to her cheek and she froze.
Raising the noise-suppressed weapon, he cracked her across the face and she collapsed to the floor. Grabbing her by the hair, he dragged her, struggling, into the living room.
'Where is she?' he asked, crouching over her.
The old woman seemed confused. 'Who?'
'The stripper-where is she?'
'Go to hell!'
Casually, he pulled a pair of garden clippers from his pocket. 'I'm going to find out anyway. You can make this easy, or hard.'
Her eyes filled with tears, but her jaw set and she said nothing.
'Hard it is,' he said. Putting down the clippers, he picked up one of her scarves off the back of a chair. He gagged her with it, then picked up the clippers and closed them around the pinky of her left hand.
Tears running down her cheeks now, her sobs fighting to get out through the gag, she closed her eyes.
'This little piggy . . .' He tightened the clippers' grip on her finger, blood leaked out around the edges. 'Are you sure it has to be this way?'
She said nothing, sobs still wracking her body.
'. . . goes to market.' The clippers closed with the angry crack of her fingertip snapping off.
Her scream was louder than he would have expected with the gag and she tried to crawl away, but he cuffed her alongside the head, grabbed a handful of hair and jerked her back. She wailed now, her right hand coming up to cup the left one as she watched blood stream down her hand.
Only risk was, he knew, she might pass out from pain and shock . . . but she was a tough old bird.
Batting away her good hand, he closed the clippers on her ring finger. 'This little piggy stayed home . . . ready to tell me? Just nod.'
She shook her head, defiant, but this time she screamed into the gag before he did it. That didn't stop him. He heard the same crack and watched the fingertip fall to the floor.
'Ready now?'
The old woman curled into a ball and tried to protect her hand, but he jerked her hand up, closed the clippers around the middle finger. Her eyes went wide and wild, and, using her good hand, she pointed toward the desk.
'What?' he asked.
She couldn't speak; the gag was bloody. She'd bit through her tongue, so taking the gag off would not aid clarity.
'You're telling me the information is in the desk?'
