Binding Ties (6 page)

“I'd want to know where,” Bell said. “What state, what city, hell, what country?”

Grissom said, “Nevada. North Las Vegas. The United States of America.”

“Bull …” Bell began; but then he pushed away from the table a little. “You two aren't kidding, are you?”

Brass sighed. “Has this meeting struck you as hilarious so far?”

“The M.O.,” Bell said. “The same M.O.—in North Las Vegas,
this morning?”

Brass indicated Grissom with a head bob. “We just left the crime scene, and it looks very much like CASt's handiwork.”

“Hard to miss,” Grissom said.

Brower hadn't said anything yet, but now he leaned forward, as did Bell and Paquette. Their eyes were glued to Brass, waiting for more, coyotes catching the scent of blood.

The detective's eyes volleyed from Bell to Paquette as he said, “We wanted to talk to you two, because nobody knew as much about that case, those murders, as you guys…. And frankly, Mark, that's why your presence here got under my skin. No offense meant.”

Brower said, “None taken.”

But Bell's hackles were up. “So
that's
why you're treating me like a suspect! Because I
am
one. Listen here, Brass, you knew as much, more than either Dave or me. You and Vince Champlain were our primary sources!”

“That's fair,” Paquette said.

Grissom said, “Let's hold off before we start suspecting the police, shall we, gentlemen?”

“What's this?” Bell blurted. “The great Gil Grissom making an
assumption!
I thought you were Mr. Follow-the-Evidence-Wherever-It-Goes! Unless in this case, if it goes to your pal Brass….”

To his credit, Grissom kept his cool. The press annoyed the CSI, their place on his list of unfavorite things ranking just under politics and politicians.

Knowing that, Brass jumped back in. “Guys, yes, you're right—Vince Champlain, and, yes, yours truly, knew more about this case than anyone.”

“The tens of thousands who read our book,” Paquette said, “also knew the case inside out, from the naked vics to that distinctive knot. Mark's been subjected to Perry and me babbling over beer about this case so much, he oughta go on your suspect list, too, I suppose. And maybe that Hollywood producer who optioned our book, and—”

“The killer,” Brass said, “knows more than what was in your book—he knew the handful of things you agreed never to share with the public.”

Bell blinked. “How much
did
… this killer know?”

“Every damn detail,” Brass said. “And as to adding Mr. Brower to the suspect list, hey, I'd be glad to. How much
have
you told him?”

“Hey, hold on there, Jim,” Brower said. “You want to know what I know, ask me!”

Paquette held up a silencing palm, Brower's way. “Mark knows more than was in the book, but he doesn't know
everything
everything. The things that Perry and I agreed we wouldn't tell anyone until the killer was caught, we haven't told him, we haven't told
anyone.”

Brass gazed at the editor for several seconds then turned his eyes to Bell who nodded affirmation.

Bell leaned closer again. “Did he cut off—”

But Brass cut Bell off, with a look.

The detective's eyes went to Brower, then back to Bell, who got the message.

“Mark
is
my research assistant,” the reporter complained.

Shaking his head, Brass said, “You can't tell anyone about the two hold-backs. Even at this late date—
especially
at this late date.”

The “hold-backs”—designed to trip up false confessors—were the semen on the victim's back, and the severed (and collected) finger. These key details both Brass and Grissom knew, and Paquette, too. The point was to keep the circle as small as possible, and that didn't include adding Mark Brower to the loop.

“I know,” Bell said in embarrassed frustration, “I know …”

A waitress was doing Connie Francis singing, “Who's Sorry Now?”

Pointedly, Brass asked, “So neither of you has shared either hold-back with anyone?”

Paquette shook his head. “No one's even asked about that case in years. Old news.”

“Now me, I've talked about the case to groups,” Bell said, “even as recently as this year. See, I put our book back into print—print on demand? I have several boxes in my car trunk, and you can buy it on Amazon and …”

Bell, it seemed, had been out on the local lecture circuit, even travelling to towns as far away as Los Angeles, hawking his self-published reprint.

Sad, what things had come to: Paquette had used the national publication of the book to build a local celebrity that had ultimately led to the editor's chair; but short, pudgy Bell—less telegenic than Paquette—had a stalled career that his self-financed reprint was being used to help shore up.

But Brass knew this effort was far too little, far too late, to have any effect on Bell's flagging fortunes, and the reporter mining the rubber-chicken circuit, selling paperbacks out of his trunk, seeking support to help him hang onto his column, was frankly a little pathetic—Rotary Club luncheons, library chat groups, and the odd program at the museum, were
not going to rekindle a flame that had never burned that brightly to begin with.

Bell was saying, “… but obviously, I've never spoken on the things we kept silent about.”

Grissom asked, “Is the book a revision?”

“I did a new introduction, but we just used a copy of the original book to shoot from—didn't retype-set it or anything.”

A nugget of ache that would eventually become a full-fledged headache throbbed just behind Brass's eyes. Such headaches had been with him for years; they'd began about the time he'd become embroiled in the CASt case….

He said, “Either somebody has shared information, or CASt is back, and his M.O. is the same.”

Brass studied their faces. Paquette seemed to be processing the information, while Bell appeared shellshocked. Brower was unreadable, the intense serious expression pretty much a constant with the guy. None of the men said anything for several long moments.

Paquette was the one who finally broke the silence. “Have you talked to your old pal Vince? Maybe he's been talking.”

“There's a thought,” Brower agreed.

Brass's words came out cold and hard: “Look, Mark, I'm going to cut you slack, because Vince was long retired before you even started at the
Banner
. Dave,
you
know better. Vince was
always
a good cop.
He never did anything to jeopardize an investigation, not on
any
case!”

Grissom said blandly, “But, of course, we'll be talking to him next. You're quite right to put him on the suspect list.”

Brass turned sharply toward the CSI.

“This is a murder investigation like any other,” Grissom was saying. “We'll talk to anyone and everyone we think can help us. For example, there are easily half a dozen others in the department who might have had access to the withheld information about CASt's full M.O.”

“That's right!” Paquette said, with a snap of his fingers. To Jim he said, “Who did you report to, you and Champlain?”

“The sheriff at the time,” Brass said. “Who is now deceased.”

Bell said, “What about Conrad Ecklie? He was the dayshift CSI supervisor. He knew!”

Grissom said, “We'll talk to him.”

Knowing how much Ecklie and Grissom hated each other, Brass thought to himself:
Someone will talk to Conrad, but it won't be Gil
….

Brass said, “Search your memories, guys. I confided in Grissom, here—he did only incidental work on the original case. Maybe you confided in somebody, too, and it's slipped your mind…. Anyway, think about it.”

The newspaper guys lapsed into silence.

“I can assure you,” Brass said, “we're going to turn over every rock we can.”

Paquette and Bell both flashed glares his way.

“Sorry … I didn't mean it to sound quite like that…. I just mean that we're going to do everything we can to catch this guy, and quick. If it is CASt, we all know what he's capable of. If he's decided to repeat his cycle, we could be looking at four more victims….”

“Jesus,” Brower said.

“If it's a newcomer with a similar M.O …” Brass let that hang in the air for a few seconds, before he added, “We don't wanna go there till we have to … but either way, we've got to catch this guy, and fast. Look, I know it's a big story, but we need, at the outset anyway, to control it.”

Bell glanced at his two cohorts, who both gave him slight nods, the three of them somehow communicating silently.

Then the reporter said, “Whatever you need, Jim, you let us know. We'll help any way we can.”

“Thanks.”

“But,” Paquette added, shaking a forefinger, “we get that twenty-four-hour lead, remember.”

Brass nodded and Grissom said, “That much we can do.”

The Elvis waiter was singing “Jailhouse Rock” when Brass and Grissom headed out.

Vince Champlain and his second wife occupied an independent living apartment at the Sunny Day Continuing Care Facility in Henderson.

A guard stopped Brass and Grissom at the gate and checked their credentials and wrote their names on his clipboard. Brass and Grissom were familiar with Sunny Day since Catherine and Warrick had worked a case recently concerning murdered patients in the continuous care wing.

Not far from Lake Mead Drive, Sunny Day offered independent living apartments in a building at the left end, and various levels of escalating care in a high-rise at the right end. For the geriatric set, Sunny Day was the living end, or the end of living, depending on which building you occupied.

Brass turned the Taurus to the left and found a parking place not far from the entrance. The Champlains were on the third floor, and—Brass having called ahead—the visit was expected. In fact, when Grissom and Brass exited the elevator and started down the hall, a petite blonde stuck her head out from a door and waved eagerly.

“Jimmy!” she practically squealed. Her expression was joyous.

Grissom gave Brass a sideways look and pointed at him. “Jimmy? You're … Jimmy?”

“Keep that to yourself.”

“That's asking a lot.”

“Don't make me shoot you.”

Grissom was smiling at Brass, who was smiling at
the tiny woman who stood just outside her doorway with outstretched arms.

“Margie,” Brass said, and allowed himself to be folded in a surprisingly massive hug coming from such a diminutive woman.

As slender as she was short, Margie Champlain had hardly aged since Brass had last seen her; the blonde hair had always been dyed, and she'd had at least one facelift back then—and at least another since.

Brass had first met Margie not long before her husband had retired. A bartender in a small dive off Fremont Street, Margie had been a fireball back in those days, one too powerful for Vince Champlain to resist. The affair had led to the break up of Vince's marriage, but Vince and his first wife, Sheila, were both better off today. Vince's affair with Margie had blossomed into true love and Sheila was now happily married to a retired Golden Nugget casino manager. Brass knew the two couples even went out to dinner together occasionally.

“How could you let yourself be such a stranger, Jimmy?” Margie asked, backing away to look him in the face but still hanging on and in no hurry to let go.

“It's working the damn nightshift,” Brass said. “I got no social life. You were lucky you hooked up with Vince so close to retirement.”

“Yeah, I missed all the
fun
of being a cop's wife, right?” She released Brass and finally noticed Grissom.
“I recognize you from TV—you're the one who's always nabbing the bad guys!”

Brass glanced at Grissom, who seemed to be trying to decide whether to be confused or embarrassed.

“I like to think of him as my little helper,” Brass said dryly. “This is Gil Grissom—our crime lab's answer to Sherlock Holmes.”

Grissom frowned and said, “I didn't know Sherlock Holmes was a question.”

Margie laughed once, then said to Brass, “Is he kidding?”

“No one knows,” Brass said.

Margie stuck her hand out and Grissom took and shook it.

“Aren't you the cutie pie,” she cooed to Grissom, maintaining her grip.

The CSI supervisor smiled nervously and looked down at his hand like a trapped animal wondering if he'd have to chew off his paw before he could escape.

“Did Vince get back yet?” Brass asked.

“Afraid not,” Margie said, finally releasing the CSI's hand. “No, like I said on the phone, he's been gone since early this morning.”

“But he will be back soon?”

“Should be any minute,” she said. “You kids come on in and wait. I'm making decaf.”