'Because,' Grissom said, 'Hyde recognized him.'
'Pardon?' Nick said.
'If you study the casino tape, the body language is unmistakable-Dingelmann recognizes the man at the poker machine . . . and the man at the poker machine recognizes him.'
'Not a contract hit, you're saying,' Catherine said. 'Something more spontaneous.'
'No, no,' Nick said, shaking his head, grinning in disagreement, 'silenced automatic, two shots in the back of the head? The Deuce is a hired assassin. . . . He kills for money.'
'That's one reason he kills,' Grissom said, patient. 'But why did he murder Marge Kostichek?'
Sara shrugged. 'Every cornered animal protects itself.'
'Exactly,' Grissom said, pointing a finger at her. 'Put the pieces together, boys and girls. We have a hired killer with a very distinct signature.'
Nods all around.
Grissom continued: 'A signature that hasn't been seen for over five years.'
'Not,' Warrick said, 'since he moved to Henderson.'
'So he is retired,' Sara said.
Nick was shaking his head again. 'But what about the traveling?'
'For now, never mind that,' Grissom said. 'Trips or not, five years ago he came here to make a new life-to live under a new name. The contrived background Warrick and Sara uncovered confirms that.'
'And Philip Dingelmann,' Catherine said, 'was a face out of his old life . . . the mob connections he's turned his back on, for whatever reason.'
Grissom smiled. 'That's a big 'bingo.' For five years, Hyde's been living quietly in Henderson, running his video store, at an apparent loss, and his only recreation, that we know of anyway, is to come in, twice a week, and gamble a little.'
'At the Beachcomber,' Warrick said. 'At off times. So nobody from his past life might recognize him.'
'Right,' Grissom said, pleased.
'That's crazy,' Nick said, not at all on board. 'Even with its family-values facelift, Vegas still has mob roots- plus people from all over the country come here, vacationing. Why would somebody who's tucked himself out of the way, in Henderson, Nevada, come to Sin City twice a week?'
'He can't help himself, man,' Warrick said. 'He's an adrenaline junkie. All those years doing what he did? Couple days a week, he gets a little taste, gets that buzz that lets him survive in the straight world. Gambling does that for some people.'
Grissom said, 'It's no accident that more wanted felons are arrested every year at McCarren than at any other airport in the country.'
Warrick nodded. 'Even in this Disneyland-style Vegas, it's still the place where you can find the biggest rush in the shortest amount of time.'
'So,' Catherine said, almost but not quite buying it, 'the mob lawyer just happened to walk into the casino where Hyde was gambling?'
Grissom pointed to a photo of the dead lawyer in the Beachcomber hallway. 'Dingelmann was a registered guest at the hotel, yes. Catching some R and R before an upcoming big trial.'
'Coincidence?' Sara asked, almost teasingly.
'Circumstance,' Grissom said. 'There's a difference.'
Nick, still the most skeptical of them, said, 'And Hyde just happened to have a gun and a silencer with him? Give me a break.'
Grissom came over to where Nick and Catherine sat; perched on the edge of the table. 'Look at when Hyde gambled. He always picked a time when business was slow. He knew someday, somebody might recognize him . . . and he'd have to be prepared. That's why he carried the gun and the noise suppresser.'
'Hell,' Warrick said. 'Maybe that was a part of the buzz.'
'Tell us, Grissom,' Catherine said. 'You can see this, can't you? Make us see it.'
And he did.
The .25 automatic, in the holster at the small of his back, brought a feeling of security . . . like that credit card commercial-never leave home without it. On several occasions, he'd almost made it out the front door without snugging the pistol in place, and each time, almost as if the gun called to him, he'd turned around and picked it up.
You just never knew, maybe today would be the day he'd need it. He'd survived this long by being cautious-never scared, just cautious. Dangerous situations required care, planning, consistency. A careful man could survive almost anything.
Over the years, he'd done a number of jobs near Vegas, and he'd always loved the town-Vegas getaways had been something he looked forward to. Now, Vegas getaways from Henderson were twice-a-week oases in a humdrum existence. He derived great pleasure coming to the football field-sized casino at the Beachcomber, but he felt secure: at five-thirty on a Monday morning, only a couple hundred players would be trying their luck.
In a room this size, this time of day, the gamblers were spread out, making the casino seem nearly deserted. Tourists-the few that ventured this far off the Strip-wouldn't be here at this hour unless they were lost or drunk. These were the hardcores, mostly locals, who never gave him a second glance.
Occasionally, a bell would go off, a machine would ding ding ding, or he might hear a muffled whoop from the half-dozen schmucks gathered around the nearest craps table; but basically, the casino remained as quiet as a losing locker room. He might have preferred a little more action, more glitz, more glamour-but he still had that habit of caution even as he took risks.
He always played at this time of day, fewer people, less noise, hell, even the cocktail waitresses didn't bother him now that they knew him to be a recluse and a shitty tipper. He played on Mondays and Wednesdays, Senior Days at the Beachcomber, when a registered player's points would be multiplied by four.
Though only fifty, his ID claimed he was fifty-six, and the silver hair at his temples made it easier to sell the lie. Right now he had the slot card of a nonexistent registered player plugged into a poker machine closer to the lobby than he would have liked. Normally, he'd play further back in the casino, away from the lobby, but his luck had been bad, and a few months ago, this particular machine had been kind. So, he'd positioned himself here, facing the lobby (his shoulder turned away from the security camera, of course).
He punched the MAX bet button, dropping his running total from twenty-five to twenty. He'd started the session with two hundred quarters when he'd slipped a fifty into the machine only a half-hour earlier. Looking at his hand, he saw a pair of threes, one a diamond, the other a club, plus the six, nine, and jack of diamonds. Sucker bet, he told himself, even as he dropped the three of clubs and tried to fill the flush. He hit the DEAL button and was rewarded with the three of hearts. Naturally.
He cursed under his breath, bet five more quarters, and wondered if his luck could possibly get any worse. Over a month since he won any real money, and he wondered what the hell it would take to turn things around. He looked up to see one of last night's holdouts finally trudging toward the elevators, calling it a night. The guy wore a dark suit, his geometric-patterned tie loose at the neck, puffing like a tan flower from his chest.
The video poker hand came up: two kings, a jack, a queen, a seven. He kept the two kings, dropped the others.
When he saw the man's face, he knew his luck wouldn't be changing today, not for the better anyway. He fought the urge to duck under the machine, but it was too late, the suit looking right at him now, recognizing him-Dingelmann.
The lawyer. His lawyer, in another life. . . .
And right now the ever so cool-in-court counselor's eyes were growing wide in surprise and alarm.
Unconsciously, the player's hand moved toward the back of his slacks, under his lightweight sport coat. He stopped as the lawyer took off at a brisk pace, heading for the bank of elevators to the left and, no doubt, the phone that waited upstairs in his room.
