“No. But he does have a history of minor crimes ranging from possession of stolen property to burglary.”
Grissom nodded. “The cylinder was made from a plastic bottle, cut down to size. The tool used had a serrate d edge-it might be a handsaw, but I’d guess a kitchen knife. The cut’s jagged and uneven, suggesting an implement that was handled in a start-and-stop fashion. There’s no label, but the shape of the neck is distinctive.”
“Nick, see if you can track down the source of that thread. Riley, I’d like you to concentrate on the bottle.”
“I-all right,” she said. “What about Richard Waltham?”
“I think I’ll go see him,” said Grissom.
Grissom talked to the manager of the motel Richard Waltham lived at; the manager described Waltham and told Grissom that Waltham could usually be found at the Tuxedo Casino, where he played cards when he had the cash.
The Tuxedo was brand-new, a hundred-million-dollar updating of an older Vegas property. It was heavy on classic style, lots of brass and oak and crystal chandeliers, HD plasma screens running clips of movies featuring Gene Kelly singing in the rain or Bogey and Bacall in a passionate exchange. All the black-and-white charm was somewhat offset by the crowds of tourists, many of them clutching drinks in gigantic novelty cups made of neon-bright plastic: three-foot-high replicas of the Eiffel Tower or stretched-hourglass shapes called yards, filled with daquiris or margaritas or piña coladas.
Walth am was sitting alone at a table, playing twenty-one. The dealer was a young blond woman dressed in a tuxedo-style top, fishnets, and heels. Waltham himself wore a faded chambray shirt, dark blue jeans, and grimy white sneakers; his hair was entirely gray and pulled back in a ponytail beneath a battered straw cowboy hat. He had a cigarette tucked behind one ear.
Grissom sat next to him. “Richard Waltham?”
Waltham gave him a wary glance. “Why?”
“Mr. Waltham, my name is Gil Grissom. I hate to interrupt your game, but I need to ask you a few questions.”
Waltham signaled for another card and snorted when he busted. “What about?”
“Your gun.”
“Don’t own a gun.”
“Maybe not now, but you did. You used it to rob a liquor store, remember?”
“That case was thrown out.”
“Because nobody could find the gun. I assume you got rid of it?”
“I told you-”
“That would have been the smart thing to do. Thing is, a gun is a valuable commodity; I doubt if you just threw it away. I think you sold it, and I want to know who you sold it to.”
Waltham pushed another chip from his dwindling pile at the dealer. “Everybody wants something, Mr. Grissom. I want to double down on a pair of aces, myself. You can see how that’s going.”
“Maybe I can change your luck. Your gun was used in a murder.”
Waltham paused. “Not my problem.”
“Not yet. But that gun is evidence in two different crimes, and I will find it. At that point, whomever you sold it to will probably accuse you of both crimes. At the very least, you’ll be charged as an accessory to murder.”
“If you find it.”
“On the other hand, if you were to direct me to that person, you’d be assisting in the investigation. If that led me to locating the weapon, it’s unlikely any further charges against you would be pursued.”
Waltham thought about it for a moment and signaled for another card. Twenty-two. He shook his head. “So you’re offering me a gamble, huh? Take a chance that you won’t find it and risk getting dragged into a murder investigation-or fold my cards, give it up, and hope you’ll honor your word.”
“That’s it.”
Waltham sighed. He had a two-day growth of beard and a fifty-year growth of wrinkles, maybe sixty around the eyes. He sized Grissom up with the weary experience of a hundred wins and a thousand losses, then gave a rueful little laugh. “Tell you what, partner. Sit down and have a drink with me. You convince me you’re an honorable man, I’ll give you the hand. But if I’m gonna throw down my cards, I need to know the fella across the table from me; that’s fair, don’t you think?”
“Fine by me.”
They left the table, Waltham scooping up the few chips he had left, and walked across the casino to the bar. Waltham greeted the bartender by name and asked for the usual; Grissom had a beer.
“You’re not the kind of cop I’m used to,” said Waltham. He pulled out a crumpled pack of cigarettes and lit one with a silver Zippo embossed with a pair of dice.
“I’m a scientist, actually.”
“Yeah? That’s a strange thing to be in this city.”
“Is it?”
“Sure. Vegas is probably the most antiscientific place on the planet. This place feeds on hope, blind faith, and a complete denial of consequences. Don’t matter if you’re talking about sex, gambling, or entertainment; it’s all about how you feel in the moment, not about how you’ll feel later or what you should be thinking about right now. Even the shows-they’ll make you laugh or gasp, or turn you on. But none of ’em will make you think.”
“I know what you’re saying. But Vegas isn’t completely about feeling as opposed to thought; any good poker player will tell you that.”
“Any good poker player tends to wind up with my money in his pocket, so maybe you’re right.” Waltham took a long swig of his drink, something clear over ice with a slice of lime. “But that’ s the exception to the rule. You can walk down the Strip, cut through a casino, wander through a few miles of mall, and you know the one constant you’re gonna find? Music. The whole place is wired, speakers hidden in lampposts and fake rocks outside, everywhere inside. It’s like one big nightclub, and the tunes they’re pumping out are all about one thing: winning.” Waltham shook his head. “Old sixties standards, seventies disco, eighties hair-band anthems, nineties-and-up pop; it’s all put together to make you feel like you’re in the last twenty minutes of a movie, just about to kick the ass of the bad guy. Don’t stop believin’, ’cause the kid is hot tonight.”
Grissom drank some of his beer. He recognized when someone just needed to vent.
“Vegas has a special kind of despair built into it,” Waltham continued. “When you’ve lost it all, when you’re alone and broke and out of options… that’s when all those bright lights, all that upbeat music, all that glitter and promise just make you realize how far you’ve fallen.”
He was quiet for a moment then. Grissom realized that somewhere-not in the bar, but not far away-he could hear music. Something with a cheerful, danceable beat.
“Know what I like to do when I feel like that?” asked Waltham. “I find myself a fountain down on Las Vegas Boulevard. One of the big ones is best, outside Paris or Bellagio or Caesars. T he water’s always nice and clear, with lots of coins sparkling down at the bottom. But that’s not all that’s down there.” Waltham stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. “You know those guys who line parts of the Strip? Wear T-shirts that tell the tourists they can get a girl to their hotel room in twenty minutes? They’ve all got these stacks of business cards in their hands, with pictures of pretty girls wearing nothing but smiles and Photoshopped stars over their nipples. These guys offer them to everyone who walks by, and they snap a finger against the cards to get your attention. Snap. Snap. Snap. That’s the real soundtrack of Vegas. And after strolling past a line of these gentlemen-women, too, sometimes-I like to stop and stare down into one of those big, elaborate fountains that Vegas is so proud of. Because down there, among the coins, there’s always some of those cards. I stare down at them and the pretty women stare back. To me they look like drowned strippers, or maybe mermaids that have decided to turn tricks…”
Waltham turned on his bar stool to look at Grissom. “You have any idea what I’m talking about?”