Can't do him here, the player thought, way too fucking public. Be patient, patience is the key. He rose, took a step, the plastic chain attaching him to his player's card reining him in, drawing him back.
He pulled the card, and barely aware of it, looked down as the poker machine started burping out coins. He glanced at his hand, four kings. Damnit. Without another thought, he left the machine and followed Dingelmann. As they neared the elevators, the lawyer's pace quickened and a couple of night owls turned, trying to figure out if the guy was loony or just drunk.
The stalker kept his face blank, though his mind raced, nerve endings jangling, long-lost emotions roiling in his gut. The lawyer, almost running now, got to the elevators, punched the UP button repeatedly and just before the killer could get to him, a car came, Dingelmann entered, and the doors slid shut.
Pounding his fist on the door, he watched as the elevator indicator reported its rise to the second floor; he jabbed the UP button, as the indicator registered the third floor. A car stopped, its door sliding open, but before he stepped on, he looked up at that indicator, which had paused at the fourth floor.
He jumped into the empty car and slapped the four button. By the second floor, beads of sweat were blossoming on his forehead and he was pacing like a caged animal. As the elevator passed the third floor, the pistol seemed to jump into his right hand, his left digging the noise suppresser out of the pocket of the linen sport coat. The door dinged at the fourth floor, and he stepped out, screwing the two pieces together.
He listened for a moment. He'd been up into the hotel a couple-of times before, with hookers, and he remembered that a steel-encased video camera hung high on the wall at the far end of the hall. The doors for each room were inset into tiny alcoves, making the hall appear deserted; but the Deuce knew better.
Moving quickly, keeping his head down (even though the camera was thirty yards down the hall), he went from door to door. Finally he found Dingelmann, frightened and fumbling with his key card at the door to room 410.
The Deuce pressed the silencer into the back of the lawyer's head and heard the man whimper. A squeeze of the trigger and a round rocketed into Dingelmann's skull, slamming him into the door, and he slumped, slid, to the floor-already dead.
Then, just to make sure, and out of ritual, he fired one more round into the lawyer's head.
A sound behind him-a yelp of surprise-prompted the Deuce to spin, bringing the pistol up as he did, never forgetting the eye of the security camera. Before him, a skinny, dark-haired waiter carrying a tray full of food gasped a second time as he dropped the tray. The metal plate covers and silverware clanged as they hit the floor, spaghetti exploding across the hallway.
Even before the clatter died away, he and the waiter took off running in opposite directions, the waiter toward the elevators, the Deuce directly at the video camera at the far end of the hall. As he took off, his right foot slipped in the lawyer's blood, and his feet nearly went out from under him. Regaining his balance, he flung himself down the hall, the blood smearing off with his first two steps.
As he sprinted he brought his arm up, destroying any chance the camera had of capturing his face on video. He shoved through the fire exit door into the stairwell and tore down the steps two at a time. As he rushed down, his mind worked over the details. Many things yet to be done.
At the first floor exit he stopped. He unscrewed the silencer, slipped it into a pocket. The pistol went into another and he checked himself carefully for splatter. He found a small scarlet blob on the toe of his right running shoe. Using a handkerchief from his pants' pocket, he daubed the spot away, got his breathing under control, stuffed the handkerchief back in his pocket, wiped the sweat from his brow with his left hand, and finally took in a deep breath, then slowly let it out through his mouth. He was ready. He eased the door open and stepped out.
Across the lobby, at the front desk, he saw the waiter screaming at a female desk clerk, and pointing in the general direction of the elevators.
The Deuce, deciding to avoid the lobby as much as possible, turned into the casino, walked past a scruffy-looking blonde girl, probably all of twenty-one, who now occupied his poker machine. The tray was still full of coins from his four kings. Silently cursing, he hoped she pissed it all away.
Avoiding security cameras altogether, often hugging walls, he kept moving, walking not running, not too slow, not too fast, then hustled through the door into the back parking lot, to his car. No rush now-he eased the car out of the parking lot, jogging from Atlantic to Wengert, then finally onto Eastern for the ride home.
The Deuce was free-the lawyer was dead-and Barry Hyde could only wonder whether today had been an example of good luck or bad.
Nick asked, 'Then why aren't we busting the guy now?'
'On what evidence?' Grissom asked.
'The videotape,' Sara said.
'Can't get a positive ID from that.'
Warrick asked, 'What about the ATM transaction?'
'Hyde claims his card was stolen. Brass is checking into that now.'
'We can match his fingerprints to the shell casings,' Catherine offered.
'That's a big one,' Grissom said, nodding. 'But we have no murder weapon. And nothing that ties Hyde to the murders of Fortunato and Kostichek except the signature.'
Greg Sanders leaned in. 'Excuse me-oh, Catherine?'
'Yeah?'
'Thought you might like to know-your cigarette butt from Evidence matches the blood you took from the fence.'
'All right!' she said, jumping to her feet. All around the room, smiles and nods appeared.
Greg wandered on in, eyes dancing, his grin wide even for him. 'That 'ASAP' enough for you?'
'Absolutely,' she said, sitting back down.
'But like they say at the end of the infomercials,' the lab tech teased, holding up a forefinger, '. . . that's not all!'
Everyone looked at him.
Enjoying center stage, Sanders said to Grissom, 'Thanks for the take-out salad.'
Willing to play along-for a moment-Grissom asked, 'You enjoyed it?'
'I think you will-the saliva matches the DNA from the blood and the cigarette.'
'Salad?' Sara asked.
'From the Dumpster behind A-to-Z Video,' Grissom said. 'Hyde even invited me to help myself to his garbage.'
'Nice guy,' Sara said.
Catherine smiled. 'What CSI would pass up an all-you-can-eat buffet?'
'Well, I stepped up,' Grissom said, 'with Warrick's help-and now we have Barry Hyde's DNA at the scene of the Fortunato killing . . . ten years before he claims he ever came to Vegas . . . and we've got that same DNA from the fence he vaulted, behind Marge Kostichek's house.'
'What more do we need?' Nick asked.
Grissom said, 'Right now, nothing-we've got what we need for the warrant that'll get us even more evidence.'
'At his residence,' Nick said, finally a believer.
'And the video store,' Catherine added.
'I'll call Brass,' Grissom said. 'With any luck, we'll have a warrant in half an hour . . . Nick, Sara, Warrick-get your equipment together, full search. We're rolling in five minutes.'
They all seemed to launch at once. The exhaustion left their faces, and they moved now with enthusiasm and
