Double Dealer

'Did you know about their plans?'

'They had permission. Like I said, I try to be a good boss to these kids.'

Grissom found himself fascinated by this specimen: if Hyde was the Deuce, Grissom was looking at a classic sociopath. If they could bust this guy, and convict him, he would make a great subject for one of Grissom's lectures.

Brass was asking the guy, 'Did you go out to eat or anything? Run errands maybe?'

'No, it's just as I've told you.' His tone was patronizing, as if Brass were a child.

Hyde continued: 'I was here all evening. Ask my kids, they'll tell you. Oh, Ronnie did go out and get Italian- pizza for them, salad for me. I believe it was about nine o'clock. The three of us ate.' An eyebrow arched. 'The pizza box, and the little styrofoam salad box, are in the Dumpster out back . . . if you would care for further confirmation.'

Grissom had rarely encountered this degree of smugness in a murder suspect before.

Brass asked, 'Where did Ronnie go to get this Italian?'

'Godfather's . . . it's a bit of a drive, but that's Ronnie's favorite pizza.'

Brass wrote that down, dutifully.

Grissom asked, 'You didn't eat any pizza?'

'No. It was sausage and pepperoni-I'm a vegetarian.'

'Oh. Health reasons, Mr. Hyde, or moral issues?'

'Both. I try to stay fit . . . and of course I take a stand against wanton slaughter.'

Grissom admired Hyde's ability to say that with a straight face. 'What's your stand on dairy items?'

'What does that have to do with a murder investigation?'

Grissom shrugged. 'I'm just wondering. I have an interest in nutrition. Mind humoring me?'

'Not at all-I'm lactose-intolerant. No cheese on my salad-just good crisp healthy veggies. But I do like some sting in my dressing.'

Grissom said, 'Thank you.'

Brass gave Grissom a sideways you're-as-nuts-as-this-guy-is look, and returned to his questioning. 'When was the first time you visited Las Vegas, Mr. Hyde? Prior to moving here, I mean.'

Hyde considered that. 'Six years ago, I believe-just a month or so before I moved here. I fell in love with the place-was here for a video store owners convention-and moved out here.'

'Never before that?'

'Never. I don't have any particular interest in gambling. It was the climate-the beauty of the desert sunsets. That sort of thing.'

'All right,' Brass said, making a note. 'Do you know a woman named Marge Kostichek?'

No hesitation. 'No-should I?'

'How about a Philip Dingelmann?'

'No.'

'Malachy Fortunato?'

'No . . . and I have to say, I'm growing weary of this game. Who are these people, and why would you think that I'd know them?'

Brass smiled-as enigmatic as a Sphinx. 'Why, they're our murder victims, Mr. Hyde.'

The smirk lost its sarcasm; the eyes hardened. 'And you are suggesting I knew these people?'

Brass said, 'We're asking.'

Hyde seemed to get irritated, now; but Grissom wondered if it was just another chess move, more cat and mouse.

'You think I've killed these people, don't you? What preposterous, presumptuous . . . this interview is over, gentlemen.'

'All right,' Brass said.

But Hyde went on: 'I've tried to assist you, cooperate with you despite your rudeness, and now you repay my good citizenship by accusing me of murder.'

Good citizenship? Grissom thought.

'And within the walls of my own establishment, no less.' He went to the door, pushed it open, and waited for them to leave.

Brass began to move, but Grissom gently held him back, by the arm. To Hyde, Grissom said, 'Talking here at your . . . establishment . . . might be more comfortable for you.'

'Than what? The police station?'

Neither man said a word.

Releasing the door, Hyde returned to his desk, sat, and said, 'All right-continue your interview.' He gestured to the telephone nearby. 'But if you accuse me of murder, if you even imply it, I'll end this interview, phone my attorney and file charges for harassment.'

Grissom noted that the security cam system did not include the office or back room.

'You mentioned gambling, Mr. Hyde,' Brass said. 'So you don't gamble?'

'I said I had no great interest in it. I live at the doorstep of the gambling capital of the United States, if not the free world. Of course I've tried my luck from time to time.'

'Ever at the Beachcomber?'

Grissom could sense the wheels turning behind the controlled if smug facade; but Hyde gave up nothing.

He said, 'I've been there. I've been to most of the casinos on and off the Strip, for dining and entertainment, if not always gaming. I've lived here for over five years.'

'We'll get to that,' Brass said. 'You ever use the ATM machine at the Beachcomber?'

Grissom thought he saw Hyde give the slightest flinch. It happened so fast he couldn't be sure. . . .

Hyde said, 'I don't believe so.'

'But you're not sure?'

'No, uh, yes, I'm sure.'

That was the closest to flustered Hyde had been, so far.

Brass said, 'There's a security tape that shows you using the ATM machine there almost seven weeks ago.'

A disbelieving smile twisted the thin lips. 'Shows me? I hardly think so. . . .' This was almost an admission of his avoidance of the casino security cameras, and Hyde quickly amplified: 'I've never used my ATM card. . . .'

After his voice trailed off, Hyde seemed lost in thought.

'What?' Grissom asked.

Nodding, Hyde said, 'You must have seen the man who stole it.'

Brass cocked his head as if his hearing were poor. 'How is that?'

'On the tape. The casino security tape-you must have seen the individual who stole my ATM card.'

Brass sighed. 'You're telling us someone stole your ATM card?'

Hyde nodded. 'Yes, around the first of May.'

'And when did you report the theft?'

'Just now, I'm afraid,' Hyde said, with what seemed an embarrassed shake of his head. 'Right after the card was stolen, I got called out of town on business and then I simply forgot about it.'

Grissom said, 'You forgot your ATM card was stolen?'

Brass didn't wait for a response, asking, 'How was it stolen?'

'I don't really know.'

Grissom felt the irritation rising again; the man's contempt for them was incredible. 'You don't know,' he said.

Hyde shrugged. 'One day I went to use it . . . in my wallet . . . and it was just gone.'

'Then you lost it,' Brass said, apparently trying not to lose it himself. 'Mr. Hyde, that's not the same thing as having it stolen.'

Hyde looked at them with undisguised disdain. 'I never found it, and the bank never called to say that they had it. So it must have been stolen. . . . I probably left it in a machine when I used it, and someone else simply took it.'

Now it was Grissom's turn to feel smug. 'How do you suppose this guy got your PIN then?'