“And if we don’t charge them soon, they’ll just go back to their respective countries.”

“Where the guilty party could simply disappear into the jungle, South Africa, or South America. Both men have years of field experience.”

Brass sighed. “So we’ve got what, seventy-two hours? To either come up with better cards or fold.”

“More or less.”

“Wonderful. Anything else?”

“I’m afraid so. It’s fairly likely that the killer has more attacks planned. The murders seemed to be planned to showcase his ingenuity-but the more complex t he scheme, the greater the chance he’ll make a mistake.”

“Any idea who he’ll go after next? So far, his victims haven’t had anything in common.”

Grissom rubbed his temples. “The victims are linked by the conceptual nature of the attacks, especially the secondary results. The Harribold case caused a riot, mimicking one anthill waging war against another. I believe Paul Fairwick was targeted because of his promixity to Athena Jordanson, the ‘queen’ of soul.”

“Why? What’s his death supposed to accomplish?”

“Athena Jordanson’s contract is almost up, and she’s been considering moving to another hotel; one of the reasons she’s cited has been lax security at her current venue. When the queen of a termite colony is threatened, her workers move her to another site.”

“Or in this case, another penthouse suite. You think our killer’s trying to accelerate the process?”

“It’s possible. But I don’t know why.” Grissom paused. “You said the victims didn’t have anything in common. But-conceptual link aside-there is one element both cases share.”

“What?”

Grissom got to his feet. “Me.”

“Is this a confession?”

“The killer is clearly trying to impress someone. I don’t think it’s any accident that he chose Vegas to stage his crimes.”

“You think he’ll come after you?”

Grissom shrugged as he headed out the door. “ I’ll be careful.”

As soon as he’d left, Brass picked up the phone. “Dispatch. Yeah, I’m gonna need a couple of uniforms to set up on Grissom’s place. Twenty-four-hour surveillance. I’ll authorize the overtime.”

With Doc Robbins in the hospital, the day-shift coroner had to finish the autopsy. He sent the spider cylinder and tube to the lab, along with the bullet he retrieved from the vic’s skull and the thread Robbins had collected.

Nick examined the thread, Riley the bullet. Grissom took the cylinder.

There were no fingerprints on the cylinder or the tube, outside or in. Grissom examined the edges of the cylinder on the open end. They were rough, the cylinder itself being nothing more than a narrow plastic bottle sawed in half. The tubing was surgical grade, inserted into a small hole punched in the lid of the bottle at one end. He took high-resolution pictures of the tool marks on both.

Nick found that the thread used to sew shut the wound was a thirty-braided filament with a diameter of 0.3 millimeters. He took pictures of the cut ends, then checked the fiber database.

The bullet was.22 caliber Remington ammo, fired from a gun with six grooves, or “lands,” in a right-hand twist of 1:14; that meant the bulle t had to travel one turn in fourteen inches. Riley thought the gun was most likely a Ruger revolver.

“Okay,” said Grissom. “What do we have?”

“The thread’s surgical grade,” said Nick. “Looked a little funky under the microscope, so I had Hodges run a chemical analysis. It’s a homopolymer of N-acetyl-D-glucosamine.”

“Chitin,” said Grissom. “Used in self-dissolving sutures because of its antimicrobial properties- that and the fact that it’s the second-most common carbon compound on the planet.”

“Cellulose being first,” said Riley. “Chitin’s derived from the outer shells of crustaceans, right?”

“And insects,” said Grissom. “He’s showing off. Common thread would have worked just as well.”

“Good,” said Riley. “Arrogance works for us in the long run. Got an IBIS hit on the bullet-matches one recovered at the scene of a liquor store robbery, though the gun was never found. The clerk identified a suspect later in a lineup, but without the gun the county prosecutor decided not to go to trial and the charges were dropped. Suspect’s name was Richard Waltham.”

“Any firearms registered in his name?” asked Grissom.

“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.”