Warrick dipped into shooter’s stance, pistol leveled at the back door, centered above a wide octagonal deck. Initially, Brass froze; but the deer-in-headlights moment passed, and he dove to his right, rolled, and came up running toward the far side of the house, in darkness again.
Ready to shoot, Warrick searched for a target, finding none, and not unhappy about it. Brass, now on the far side of the house, would be making his way toward the front and expecting Warrick to be there to cover him.
Spinning, Warrick sprinted back to the front. He turned and, at the garage door, stayed close as he slithered to the far end. Peeking around the corner, Warrick saw nothing and wondered if something had happened to Brass. Fighting panic, he saw Brass’s face slide out from behind a shrub at the corner of the house. Warrick’s trip-hammer heartbeat slowed only slightly, as he watched the detective trying to see inside.
The CSI watched intently, as Brass crawled beneath the window, stopping to peer over the edge of the frame. Just when he thought they were going to pull this off without a hitch, Warrick felt a hand settle on his shoulder. He jumped and turned, bringing his pistol up as he went.
Grissom just looked at him. “Damnit, Gris,” Warrick half-whispered, keeping his voice down at least, as the adrenaline spiked through his system. Turning back, he realized he couldn’t see Brass now, and—panic rising again—wondered where the detective had gone. As he prepared to stick his head around the corner, Brass came the other way, suddenly appearing three inches in front of him, and Warrick jumped again. Damn!
“Hyde’s not home,” Brass said, his voice low, but no longer a whisper.
“Not home,” Warrick echoed numbly—but as much as he wanted this son of a bitch, he couldn’t help feeling relieved.
Brass was saying, “Those lights gotta be on a timer. No sign of him in the living room, and the lights are still off in the rest of the house.”
Spinning back to Grissom, Warrick asked, “And just what the hell were you doing?”
“Neighbors called in a prowler,” he said. “Henderson PD is coming—silent response.”
The words were no sooner out of his mouth than three police cars rolled into the court, cherrytops making the night psychedelic, spotlights trained on the three of them. No sirens, though—that might disturb the neighborhood.
Officers piled out, using their doors for cover as they aimed their pistols at Brass and Warrick.
“Drop your guns,” one of them ordered, and then another one or two yelled pretty much the same thing.
Carefully kneeling, Warrick and Brass set their guns on the ground in front of them.
“Is our cover blown yet?” Grissom asked.
As Brass explained the situation to the Henderson Police Department, Warrick and Grissom stood staring at the big, expensive, and apparently very empty house.
“He’s making us look like fools,” Warrick said.
Grissom didn’t reply immediately; but then he said, “When we’re done here, we’ll swing by the video store.”
“He could be there.”
“Yes he could.”
Brass returned, shaking his head. “They’re a little pissed.”
Warrick said, “I guess we coulda given ’em a heads up.”
“It’s not ideal interdepartmental relations,” Brass admitted. He looked at the disgruntled uniforms, who were milling out by their black-and-whites, cherrytops shut off. “They also informed me that Barry Hyde has been a model citizen since moving to Henderson… and if in the future we want to do some police work in their fair city, they would like us first to ask their permission.”
“They said that?” Grissom asked.
“I’m paraphrasing, but the message was the same. So—let’s go home.”
Warrick said, “Gris wants to drop by A-to-Z Video on the way back.”
“Hell no,” Brass said.
“Maybe I want to rent a movie,” Grissom said.
Brass seemed to struggle for words. Finally he managed, “You know, Warrick, after your boss finishes this case, it’s possible you and I are both going to be looking for work.”
“Maybe they could use us in Henderson,” Warrick suggested. “Looks like a nice town to work in. But till then, what do you say we go scope out the vids?”
Brass shook his head again. “Might as well. It’ll give me something to look at while I’m on suspension.”
16
About the time night shift actually started—after she had already put in over four hours that included getting shot at and working a particularly unpleasant crime scene—Catherine Willows nonetheless exuded vitality as she made a bee-line for the DNA lab. From behind her, Sara’s voice called out: “Hey, wait up!”
She slowed, turning to see Sara hustle up, a report in hand. “If you’re headed for DNA, I may have something for you.”
As they walked, Sara handed her the report, saying, “I told Greg I’d give this to you. It’s the DNA results from your Fortunato evidence.”
Catherine took it, but asked, “What’s the news?”
“Blood was the mummy’s. Cigarette taken from the Fortunato backyard sixteen years ago contains DNA that doesn’t match either the late husband or his living wife.”
Catherine smiled wickedly. “Could be the Deuce’s.”
Sara flashed her cute gap-toothed grin. “Could be. But why are we still headed to the lab?”
“ ’Cause this isn’t what I was going there for.”
Quickly Catherine filled Sara in, slightly out of order: telling her Marge Kostichek had been murdered, apparently by the Deuce, then about the tight scrape she and Nick had been in. And finally she brought Sara up to speed on Joy Petty and the Kostichek woman hiring the murder of the mummy.
Sara, clipping along beside her, said, “And here I thought sure Fortunato was a mob hit.”
“We all did,” Catherine said, with a sour smirk. “Grissom told us not to assume anything, yet we all bit. Maybe that’s why this woman is dead now.”
“And I take it you’ve already dropped off the Kostichek crime scene evidence to Greg…. ”
“Yes, and maybe we’ll match up that ancient cigarette DNA—when I chased the son of a bitch tonight, he cut himself on a chain link fence.”
Sara, mimicking the milk ad, asked, “Got blood?”
“Oh yeah,” Catherine said, and strode into the lab, Sara right behind her.
Sanders almost jumped off his stool. “God! Don’t you guys ever knock?”
Catherine leaned on his counter. “That murder crime scene stuff I dropped off? You said you’d get to it ASAP.”
“And I will.”
She just looked at him. Then she said, “Maybe it’s time to define ‘ASAP.’ ”
The normally cheerful lab rat scowled at the two women. “Listen, I’m so far behind it’ll be, like, Monday before I can get to it. I got overload from Days to deal with—day shift has, like, two murders, a rape and—”
“Days?” Catherine asked. “You’re giving priority to dayshift?”
His brow lifted and half his mouth smirked. “You ever had Conrad Ecklie on your ass?”
“I’m not interested in your personal life, Greg.”
He lowered himself over a microscope. “I’ll laugh next week, when I have the time.”
Leaning near the door, Sara said, “Speaking of time, Cath—while you’re waiting for that DNA evidence, we could check the phone records around here…for personal calls.”
Greg glanced up.
“You know,” Sara continued, with a shrug, “as responsible public servants, we need to make sure the taxpayers are being well-served.”
Sanders stroked his chin as if a beard were covering his baby face. “For two such dedicated public servants, I might be able to squeeze it in.”
“Thanks, Greg—you’re the best.”
The Taurus and Tahoe pulled into the parking lot and glided side by side into stalls in front of the video store. Warrick climbed down from the driver’s seat of
the Tahoe, and Brass got out of the Taurus, where Grissom had ridden in the front passenger seat. The CSI supervisor—after taking a long, deep breath, letting it out the same way—followed, joining the two men on the sidewalk.
The normally cool Warrick seemed just a little nervous to Grissom; the lanky man was bobbing on his feet, as he looked in the storefront window and said, “The cashier tonight must be Sapphire—that means the assistant manager on duty is Ronnie. These people have never seen us before, Gris—how do you want to play it?”
It only took Grissom a moment to decide. “Jim and I’ll head straight to the back room—you stay out front and keep an eye on the cashier.”
A nod. “You got it.”
“Gil,” Brass said, his face creased with worry, “I’ve got to tell you, I think this is the wrong play. There’s something going on here that we don’t understand, yet. You really think sticking our hand into a blind hole makes sense? We could pull out a bloody stump.”
“Hyde has to be somewhere,” Grissom said. “He’s not at his residence—this is his business. What else do you suggest?”
Without waiting for an answer, Grissom pushed open the glass door and went inside.
“May I help you, sir?” a cheerful voice asked from the cashier’s island.
Moving into the brightly illuminated world of shelved videos and movie posters, Grissom said, “Just looking,” and kept moving toward the back of the store. He felt Brass behind him, maybe two steps.
Warrick strolled in a few seconds behind them, and walked straight to the cashier.
“Hi,” he said in a loud voice. “How are you?”
“Fine.”
“Have you got the director’s cut of Manhunter?”
As Warrick and the cashier chatted, Brass said to Grissom, “You’re the evidence guy, for Christ’s sake! What can we do here that will hold up in court?”
Still ignoring his colleague, Grissom pushed open the swinging door, despite the PRIVATE sign tacked to it, and almost immediately a figure from inside blocked the way: a kid not any older than the last one they’d met here.
“Hey! Can’t you read?”
As the kid pointed to the PRIVATE sign, Grissom took a step back and appraised the youth, who wore a blue polo shirt with A-to-Z stitched over the breast, a pudgy kid with dirt-brown hair and dirt-brown eyes set deep inside a pale face.
“You can’t come back here!”
The kid said this loudly—too loudly, as if it were for someone’s benefit other than Grissom and Brass.
Grissom leaned in, almost nose to nose with the kid. “We’re looking for your boss—Barry Hyde.”
“Uh, uh…”
From inside the office, a voice called, “I’m Barry Hyde!…Let the gentlemen in, Ronnie.”
Shaken, Ronnie stepped aside, and Grissom stepped into the small office, Brass following glumly.
Getting up from a desk at the right, where a security monitor revealed four angles of the store (including Warrick and the cashier talking), the man rose to a slim six-foot-one or so. That thin build was deceptively muscular, however. The man—who wore no name tag—was in a black polo shirt and black jeans—wardrobe, Grissom noted, not far removed from his own. He was in his fifties, but youthfully so.
And the man’s right hand was wrapped in a large gauze bandage.
“I’m Gil Grissom from—”
“Do you always barge into private places unannounced, Mr. Grissom?” Hyde asked, superficially pleasant, but with an edge.
“From the Las Vegas Criminalistics Bureau,” Grissom finished. “This is Captain Brass. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“We should have knocked,” Brass mumbled. “Sorry.”
“Apology noted,” Hyde said. “And I always like to cooperate with law enforcement, but I’m sure you’ll understand if I ask see to your credentials.”
“Certainly,” Brass said, and they complied with the request.
Hyde studied Brass’s badge and Grissom’s picture ID a few beats longer than necessary, Grissom thought; a smirk lurked at the corner of Hyde’s mouth. This man was not afraid of them, or thrown by their presence: he seemed, if anything, amused!
Handing their credentials back, Hyde gave them a curt nod. “Fine, gentlemen. Now. What may I do for you? And let me assure you that any adult material we rent is clearly within community standards.”
Grissom smiled, just a little. “Mr. Hyde, I notice you’re wearing a bandage on your right hand—it looks fresh. Would you mind telling us how you injured yourself?”
The mouth smirked, but the forehead tensed. “Is there a…context to these questions?”
Brass said, “Could you please just answer.”
Hyde’s smirk evolved into a smile consisting of small even teeth—something vaguely animal-like about them. He held up the hand in front of him, the bandage like a badge of honor. “Shelving units. Ronnie…that’s the young man you were intimidating just now…Ronnie and I were rearranging some shelves and one of them cut my hand.”
“Could I take a look at the injury?”
“Why, are you a doctor?”
“Well, yes…in a way.”
“I’m going to say no,” Hyde said, firm but not unfriendly. “I only just now got the bleeding stopped, and got it properly bandaged. I’m not going to undress the wound so you can look at it, for some unspoken reason. Out of the question, gentlemen.”
Grissom fought the irritation rising in him. It must have shown, because Brass jumped in with his own line of questioning. “Mr. Hyde, can you tell us where you were, earlier this evening?”
“I could, but you’re going to have to be frank with me, gentlemen, if you want my cooperation.”
Grissom laid it out: “This is a murder investigation.”
That might have given the average person pause, but Hyde snapped right back: “And that gives you the right to be rude?”
Grissom said nothing.
“Please, Mr. Hyde,” Brass said, reasonably, “tell us where you were earlier this evening.”
“Any particular time?”
Brass shrugged. “Let’s say since five.”
“A.M. or P.M.?” Hyde asked, his eyes on Grissom, that tiny half-smirk tugging at his cheek.
“Make it P.M.,” Brass said, and took a small notebook from his pocket.
“All right.” Now Hyde shrugged. “I’ve been here at the store.”
“Since five?”
“Earlier than that even,” said Hyde. “Since around four.”
Their earlier visit to A-to-Z had been mid-afternoon; had they just missed their man?
“Witnesses to that effect?” Brass asked casually.
“Ronnie and Sapphire. They both came in at four today.”
“Isn’t that early?” Grissom asked. “I mean, you open at ten, and go to midnight. I thought the shifts would be divided in half.”
A smile split the pockmarked face, a stab at pretended cordiality. “That would make sense, wouldn’t it? But today Patrick and Sue had plans—they’re something of an item…not ideal, a workplace romance, but it happens, and I just hate to be a hard-ass boss.”
Pothead Patrick had indeed said good things about their boss; but Grissom didn’t mention the other assistant manager—Warrick had negotiated the kid’s silence, earlier. Or was there a surveillance tape that Hyde had looked at? Had the killer been reviewing security tapes, too?
Hyde was saying, “The lovebirds left an hour early, and Sapphire and Ronnie came in to cover.”
Brass asked, “Did your other two employees see you, today?”
Hyde shook his head. “No, they left right at four, and I wandered in a few minutes after.”
“Did you know about their plans?”
“They had permission. Like I said, I try to be a good boss to these kids.”
Grissom found himself fascinated by this specimen: if Hyde was the Deuce, Grissom was looking at a classic sociopath. If they could bust this guy, and convict him, he woul
d make a great subject for one of Grissom’s lectures.
Brass was asking the guy, “Did you go out to eat or anything? Run errands maybe?”
“No, it’s just as I’ve told you.” His tone was patronizing, as if Brass were a child.
Hyde continued: “I was here all evening. Ask my kids, they’ll tell you. Oh, Ronnie did go out and get Italian—pizza for them, salad for me. I believe it was about nine o’clock. The three of us ate.” An eyebrow arched. “The pizza box, and the little styrofoam salad box, are in the Dumpster out back…if you would care for further confirmation.”
Grissom had rarely encountered this degree of smugness in a murder suspect before.
Brass asked, “Where did Ronnie go to get this Italian?”
“Godfather’s…it’s a bit of a drive, but that’s Ronnie’s favorite pizza.”
Brass wrote that down, dutifully.
Grissom asked, “You didn’t eat any pizza?”
“No. It was sausage and pepperoni—I’m a vegetarian.”
“Oh. Health reasons, Mr. Hyde, or moral issues?”
“Both. I try to stay fit…and of course I take a stand against wanton slaughter.”
Grissom admired Hyde’s ability to say that with a straight face. “What’s your stand on dairy items?”
“What does that have to do with a murder investigation?”
Grissom shrugged. “I’m just wondering. I have an interest in nutrition. Mind humoring me?”
“Not at all—I’m lactose-intolerant. No cheese on my salad—just good crisp healthy veggies. But I do like some sting in my dressing.”
Grissom said, “Thank you.”
Brass gave Grissom a sideways you’re-as-nuts-as-this-guy-is look, and returned to his questioning. “When was the first time you visited Las Vegas, Mr. Hyde? Prior to moving here, I mean.”
Hyde considered that. “Six years ago, I believe—just a month or so before I moved here. I fell in love with the place—was here for a video store owners convention—and moved out here.”
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