Double Dealer

by Max Allan Collins

  “You coming?” Grissom asked. He seemed calm, but Brass noted a certain uncharacteristic wildness in the CSI's eyes.

  Brass jumped into the passenger seat and the SUV flew out of the court, going up on a lawn to get around the semi. As they hurtled down the adjacent Henderson street, Brass—snapping his seatbelt in place—asked, “You want me to drive?”

  “No.”

  “Want me to hit the siren?”

  “No.”

  Accelerating, Grissom jerked the wheel left to miss a Dodge Intrepid. Brass closed his eyes.

  As the criminalist ran a red light, Brass flipped on the flashing blue light—still no siren, though. Right now Grissom was jamming on the brakes, to keep from running them into the back end of a bus.

  Brass was glad it was such a short hop to A-to-Z Video.

  The SUV squealed into the lot and slid to a stop in front of the video store. Grissom was out and running to the door before Brass even got out of his seatbelt. Working to catch up, the detective pulled even just as Grissom pushed through the door and said, “Where's Barry Hyde?”

  The cashier said, “Mr. Hyde isn't here right now.”

  Grissom cut through the store, down the middle aisle, Brass hot on his heels.

  Pushing open the back-room door, Grissom demanded, “Where is he?”

  Patrick, the hapless assistant manager, merely looked up, eyes wide with fear, and he burned his fingers on his latest joint. With a yelp of pain, the kid jumped out of his chair and backed into a corner.

  “Barry Hyde,” Grissom said. “Where is he?”

  “Not . . . not here. I told you guys before, he won't be back until Monday!”

  Grissom pushed through a connecting door into the back room. Brass tagged after. Shelves of videos, stored displays, empty shipping boxes, and extra shelving, but no Barry Hyde. The criminalist and the cop went back through the office, where the assistant manager stood in trembling terror, the scent of weed heavy.

  “Sometime soon I'll be back,” Brass said, “and if there's any dope on these premises, your ass'll be grass.”

  Patrick nodded, and Brass went after Grissom, who had already moved out into the store.

  As Grissom headed toward the cashier's island, and Brass labored to catch up, a tall blond man in a well-tailored navy blue suit stepped around an endcap, and held out a video box.

  The smiling cobra—Culpepper.

  “You like Harrison Ford movies, Grissom?” the FBI agent asked casually, his voice pleasant, his smile smug.

  “Why am I not surprised to see you here,” Grissom said, with contempt.

  “This is a modern classic, Gil,” Culpepper said. “You really should try it—cheap rental, older title, you know.”

  And Culpepper held out the video: Witness.

  Brass frowned, not getting it.

  “I haven't seen it,” Grissom said. “Is it about a freelance assassin in the Federal Witness Protection Program?”

  Oh shit, Brass thought, as it all clicked.

  “No,” Culpepper said. “But that would make a good movie, too—don't you think?”

  Grissom's voice was detached and calm, but the detective noted that the criminalist's hands were balled into fists, the knuckles white. “You weren't looking for your Deuce, Culpepper—you already had him . . . you've had him for almost five years. You were just hanging around criminalistics, to see what we knew, learn what we found, so you could keep one step ahead.”

  Leaning against the COMEDY shelf, a self-satisfied grin tugging at a corner of his cheek, Culpepper said, “I really can't say anything on this subject. It's sensitive government information. Classified.”

  “You can't say anything, because then I could have you arrested for obstruction.”

  Culpepper's smile dissolved. “You're a fine criminalist, Grissom. You and your team have done admirable work here—but it's time to pack up your little silver suitcase and go home. This is over.”

  Grissom glanced at Brass. “Those short trips Hyde was making, Jim—he wasn't doing hits. The Deuce really was retired—and Barry Hyde was off on short hops, testifying in RICO cases and such. . . . Right, Agent Culpepper?”

  “No comment.”

  “You people made a deal with a mad dog, and now you're protecting him, even though he's murdered two more people.”

  Now Culpepper turned to Brass. “Maybe you can explain the facts of life to your naive associate here. . . . When cases are mounted against organized crime figures—the kind of people who deal in wholesale death, through drugs and vice of every imaginable stripe—deals with devils have to be made. Grown-ups know that, Grissom—they understand choosing between the lesser of evils.”

  “Compromise all you want, Culpepper,” Grissom said. “Evidence makes no compromises—science has no opinion beyond the truth.”

  The agent laughed. “You ever consider goin' into the bumper-sticker business, buddy? Maybe you could write fortunes for fortune cookies? You have a certain gift.”

  “I like the job I'm doing just fine. I'm just getting started on this case. . . .”

  “No, Grissom—stick a fork in yourself. You're done.”

  Grissom's eyes tightened; so did his voice. “When I'm done, Culpepper, you'll know it—you'll be up on charges, and Barry Hyde will be on Death Row.”

  “Barry Hyde?” Culpepper asked, as if the name meant nothing. “You must be confused—there is no Barry Hyde. Within days the house on Pond Court'll be empty, and in a week, A-to-Z Video will be a vacant storefront.”

  “Call Hyde whatever you want,” Grissom said. “I've got enough evidence to arrest him for the murders of Philip Dingelmann, Malachy Fortunato and Marge Kostichek.”

  “There's no one to arrest. Barry Hyde doesn't exist—it's sad when a man of your capabilities wastes time chasing windmills.”

  “Barry Hyde's a sociopath, Culpepper,” Grissom said. “What's your excuse?”

  With a small sneer, Culpepper leaned in close and held Grissom's gaze with his own. “I'm telling you as a brother officer—let it go.”

  “You're not my brother.”

  Culpepper shrugged; then he turned and walked quickly out of the store.

  Grissom watched the exit expressionlessly, as Brass moved up beside him, saying, “Real charmer, isn't he?”

  “Snake charmer.”

  “Is he right? Are we done, you think?”

  “Culpepper doesn't define my job for me—does he define your job for you, Jim?”

  “Hell, no!”

  “Glad you feel that way. Let's get back to work.”

  They drove back to the house in silence; both men were examining the situation, from the ends of their respective telescopes. The moving van still sat blocking the court, and Grissom had to park around the corner. As they walked past the truck, Brass was concerned to see no one up in the vehicle. “Where are they?”

  Grissom shook his head and headed toward the house. The other Tahoe and Brass's Taurus were still parked out front; the Henderson cops leaned against their squads, sipping something from paper cups. Trotting up the driveway, Grissom led the way through the front door. They found the two movers sitting on the stairs sipping similar cups.

  Grissom and Brass nodded to the movers, who nodded back.

  “Honey, I'm home!” Grissom announced, voice echoing a bit, in the foyer.

  Sara came in from the kitchen, the camera still in her hands. “Where have you been?”

  “The neighborhood video store.”

  Brass said, “Hyde's flown the coop.”

  Grissom asked her, “Where's everybody?”

  With appropriate gestures, she responded. “Nick's printing the bathroom, then he'll be done. Catherine's doing the garage. Warrick found three pairs of running shoes and bagged them. I think he's . . .”

  “Right here.” Warrick walked down the stairs, stopping just above the two movers. “You guys want some more lemonade?”

  They both shook their heads, sliding to one side, so Warric
k could come down the stairs between them.

  Warrick stood before Grissom and said, “I'm sure one of those pairs of shoes is the right one, Gris. He had three identical pair—really liked 'em.”

  “Anything else?” Grissom asked.

  Nick ambled in from the bathroom. “I've got plenty of prints . . . plus, I found this on the desk in Hyde's office.” He held up a plastic evidence bag with a pile of letters inside. “Letters from Petty to Marge Kostichek—which he obviously stole from Kostichek's.”

  Brass gave Grissom a hard look. “I hope the LAPD catches up with the Petty woman—or that she really knows how to run away and start over. If Hyde has any friends in L.A., we could be looking for another body.”

  Grissom asked the movers to wait outside, which they did. Then—with the exception of Catherine, who wasn't finished out in the garage—Grissom gathered everyone around him in the foyer and explained the video store encounter with Culpepper.

  “Prick,” said Warrick.

  “You're saying he just made Hyde disappear,” Sara said.

  “After we talked to Hyde last night,” Grissom said, “that was it. Hyde made a call, and they whisked him out of town. He didn't even stop back at home, for fear he'd run into us.”

  Brass said, “And now they'll start him over, somewhere.”

  Sara looked dazed. “How can they do that?”

  Brass smiled, wearily. “The feds play by their own rules. They don't give two shits about ours.”

  “So, that's it?” Nick asked, truly pissed. “We bust our butts, and the FBI pulls the rug out from under us? It's just . . . over?”

  “I know Gil wants to pursue this,” Brass said, “that's my desire, too. But maybe we have to face facts—we've been screwed over by people who were supposed to be our allies. How do we fight Uncle Sam?”

  “Let's back up,” Grissom said. “Before we march on Washington, let's review what we have, other than a lot of circumstantial evidence. If Barry Hyde walked into this house, we could arrest him—but could we convict him?”

  “We could now,” Catherine said.

  Everyone turned to see her standing in the doorway to the attached garage. An evidence bag dangled from her right hand, inside of which was tucked a 1930's vintage Colt .25 automatic.

  Brass felt a smile spreading. “Is that what I think it is?”

  “It's not a water pistol. And, if the boss will allow me to make an educated guess, I'm predicting the barrel on this baby will match the bullets we took from Marge Kostichek. And the primer markings on shell casings found at all three murders should tie Mr. Barry Hyde up in one big bloody bow.”

  Astounded but pleased, Grissom took the bagged weapon, asking her, “Where did you find it?”

  “I'll show you.”

  Catherine led the way into the garage. She stopped in front of a fuse box on the back wall, while the others gathered around her in a semicircle. The gray metal box looked like every other fuse box in the world, with conduit running out the top, disappearing inside the false ceiling of the attic above.

  “I noted a fuse box in the basement,” she said. “So I wondered why he would have a fuse box in the garage, when there's no heavy duty tools and only two one-hundred-ten outlets.”

  “Nice catch,” Grissom said.

  She opened the little gray door, revealing no breakers, no fuses, no anything except the end of the hollow conduit. With her hands in their latex gloves, she removed the gun from the evidence bag to carefully slip it inside the conduit, to demonstrate where she had found it; then just as carefully rebagged the evidence.

  Sara, grinning, shaking her head, said, “Almost your classic ‘hide it in plain sight.’ ”

  “And the feds lifted him out of this life so fast,” Warrick said, “he didn't have to take his favorite toy with him.”

  “We should look for the black ninja outfit,” Sara said. “He obviously made a quick stop here after he killed Marge Kostichek, before going back to the video store.”

  Everyone was smiling now, proud of Catherine, proud of themselves. That left it to Brass to bring them back to reality.

  “Okay,” Brass said, “so we have the evidence. But we still don't have Barry Hyde. He's in the FBI's loving arms, helping them bring the really big bad guys down.”

  “Please,” Sara said, making a face. “I may want to eat again, someday.”

  Grissom did not seem put off by Brass's little speech. “Let's get back to work. Sara's right, let's look for those clothes. . . . We've got a killer to catch.”

  “But Brass said this was over,” Nick said.

  “We need to gather our evidence,” Grissom said, calmly, “analyze it, prepare it for use in Hyde's eventual prosecution. And, of course, Sara's going to play the major role.”

  “I am?” she asked, bewildered.

  “Don't be modest,” Grissom said, with a tiny enigmatic smile. “Let's finish up here, guys—then we'll go back and I'll tell you how we're going to nail Barry's hide to our non-federal wall.”

  19

  BEFITTING THE BITTER DECEMBER WEATHER, THE FEDERAL Courthouse in Kansas City might have been fashioned from ice by some geometrically minded sculptor, not an architect working in glass and steel. The interior of the structure, however well-heated, remained similarly cold and sterile. No straight-back wooden chairs for the jury boxes in this building, rather padded swivel chairs and personalized video monitors—though the latter were seldom used, as lawyers so frequently arranged plea bargains before trials began. The justice meted out here seemed to contain no compassion, no humanity, also no punishment in some cases—just judgments as icy as the steel and glass of a structure that seemed a monument to bureaucracy . . . and expediency.

  In a courtroom on the second floor, Gil Grissom—in a dark jacket over a gray shirt with black tie, a gray topcoat in his lap—sat in the back row, his eyes on the three-sided frame screen whose white cheesecloth concealed the witness box. Another set of screens blocked any glimpse of the witness's entrance by way of the judge's chambers. Onlookers took up only a third of the gallery.

  The twelve jurors—evenly divided between men and women—sat blankly, though the unease of several was obvious; one individual looked as if he'd rather be in a dentist's chair. Behind the bench, the judge was moving his head from left to right, and front to back, apparently trying to work a kink out of his neck.

  At the prosecutor's desk a wisp of a woman in a gray power-suit sat next to a bullish federal prosecutor. At the defense table, a nationally known attorney—at least as well-known as the late Philip Dingelmann, whose murder had finally hit CNN, the day the owner of A-to-Z Video disappeared—wore a gray suit worthy of a sales rack at Sears. He had the wild long hair of an ex-hippie, the tangled strands now all gray; he was a character—the kind of lawyer Geraldo loved to book.

  Right now he was sucking on a pencil like it was a filterless Pall Mall, speaking in quiet tones to his client. The lawyer had made his bones defending pot farmers and kids charged with felony possession. When the drug of choice shifted to cocaine and the cartels moved in, the attorney had changed—and grown—with the times.

  Back here in the cheap seats, Grissom could see only the lawyer's profile, and that of his client, Eric Summers, whose black hair, with its hint of gray, was tied in a short ponytail, his face angular, clean-shaven, with a sharp, prominent chin. Despite his conservative dark suit and tie, this defendant in a major RICO case looked more like a middle-aged rock star, and why not? His forays into the distribution of controlled substances, escort-service prostitution and big-time dot-com scams—the local papers referred to him as “a reputed leader among the so-called new breed of K.C. gangsters”—had allowed him to enjoy a rock-star lifestyle.

  Up front, just behind the prosecutor's table, a blond head bobbed up, in conferral with the female prosecutor. Grissom leaned forward, to get a better view—Culpepper, all right.

  The witness was escorted in, shadows playing behind the cheesecloth curtain—probably
a federal marshal back there, with him—and then the witness took the chair of honor. The bailiff, on the other side of the screen, swore the witness in, referring to him only as “Mr. X.”

  Grissom sat forward, not breathing, not blinking, focused solely on the two words that would now be spoken—the words he had shown up to hear, the sound that would make worthwhile his CSI unit finding time for this case, over these last six months, despite whatever demands other crimes might make. It might even justify the overtime Sara Sidle had maxed out on. . . .

  And the witness promised to tell the truth, and nothing but, in the traditional fashion: “I do.”

  Grissom smiled.

  The voice was an arrogant voice, self-satisfied . . . the distinctive voice of Barry Hyde.

  And Grissom could breathe again. He even blinked a few times. Hours of work, weeks of tracking, months of waiting, had come down to this. Outside were freezing temperatures, an inch and a half of snow, and his colleagues—Warrick Brown, with Sara Sidle, guarding the building's side entrances, Jim Brass covering the back, Nick Stokes standing watch out front.

  Grissom and Catherine Willows—in a black silk blouse, black leather pants, a charcoal coat in her lap—sat in the courtroom watching the proceedings, just two interested citizens. Next to Catherine sat Huey Robinson, a Kansas City detective, black and burly, big as a stockyard, barely fitting into his pew. O'Riley knew Robinson—they had been in the army or Marines or something, together—and Brass had recruited the hard-nosed cop, in advance, from the local jurisdiction.

  That minor debacle with the Henderson PD had reminded Jim Brass that a little interdepartmental courtesy went a long way; and Grissom had seen from Culpepper's example how a show of contempt for another PD's concerns could rankle.

  Sending Grissom, his unit and Brass to Kansas City for this trial had been expensive; but Sheriff Brian Mobley had been so furious with Culpepper that he'd have spent half a year's budget, if it meant settling scores with the conniving FBI agent.