Binding Ties ccsi-6

by Max Allan Collins

  Pulling his Mini Maglite out of his pocket, Grissom returned to the sink. The garbage disposal side had a plastic cover fitted tightly over the drain. The sink itself was empty. The one place where all the mess should have gone, it was completely avoided, just another anomaly in a lifetime of crime scene anomalies.

  The well on the right held a microwave container of chicken noodle soup that had obviously been spilled there from the drainboard next to the sink. The strainer basket had wound up across the room, against a wall, possibly used as a weapon hurled by one opponent at another. Grissom had bagged that already.

  Looking down into the mass of noodles leaking into the slotted drain, Grissom thought he saw something shiny wink at him.

  Carefully moving the noodles aside, the CSI got his forceps and shone the beam of his flash on the object as he gingerly guided the tips of the tool around the object.

  The last thing he wanted was for the thing to fall through the slotted drain, into the trap. He would take the drain apart if he had to, but would prefer not. Slowly, carefully, he got the object into the center and clamped down on the forceps, locking the object in the tool's grip. Lifting it out, Grissom saw that he held a tiny diamond encrusted "D."

  Flipping it over, he saw a joint on the back where something had been broken off. This was, he thought, most likely an earring. If so, why did Brower have a "D" earring?

  Bagging it, Grissom placed the earring in his kit. Jerome Dayton might be a probable candidate for the "D," but this seemed an unlikely piece of jewelry for a man.

  He'd check with Brass later. But right now, Sara and Warrick needed help with the rest of the house.

  Ten

  O utside the Brower house, Jim Brass paced.

  For the first time, in a case that stretched back to the beginning of his Vegas career, he sensed that the end might be in sight. The Brower house had been a blind alley in that neither the copycat suspect nor the real CASt had been found within; but the signs of struggle indicated that both had been present.

  Would CASt once again slip away? Would this case still be consuming him if he worked on it another ten years? Every time they'd gotten close, the rug seemed to get pulled out from under…

  And so Jim Brass paced, at once angry and gleeful, frustrated and gratified, apprehensive and hopeful. As the CSIs loaded their equipment, the detective finally planted himself on the sidewalk next to their SUV.

  He watched as Grissom lifted an evidence bag out of his kit; then the thoughtful CSI approached him.

  "You know Brower," Grissom said. "Does he have anyone in his life whose name starts with 'D'? Someone who might wear this?"

  Brass looked at the bag: The glittering diamond earring was broken, but the detective recognized it at once.

  Grissom was saying, "The only names I could come up with, in the CASt context, were David Paquette and Jerome Dayton. But this seems to be a woman's bauble."

  "It once was," Brass said. "It belonged to Dayton's mother-sonny boy had it made into an earring…and I saw him wearing it, today."

  The two men's eyes locked for a beat, and a pair of very faint smiles formed, and curt nods were exchanged…

  …and then they were moving, Grissom slamming the rear doors on the Tahoe, Brass running for his Taurus, yelling to Carrack and Jalisco to follow him, leaving one squad behind to maintain the crime scene.

  To Warrick and Sara, Grissom called, "Get in-CASt may be taking his curtain call!"

  The parade of vehicles-Brass in front, followed by the CSI SUV and a patrol car-tore across the city, sirens screaming, Hacienda to Sandhill, then north to Tropicana, and back east to hook up with I-515. Calling for backup, Brass found himself flying up the on ramp at eighty, and nearing one hundred as he sped north.

  Around Pecos Road and Stewart Avenue, the interstate curved to the west, and Brass wove through traffic as he raced toward Dayton's palatial digs. By now two more patrol cars had fallen in behind Grissom's Tahoe, joining the motorcade. Brass blew down the off ramp at Town Center Drive, still going over fifty, and sailed across Town Center before swinging into the TPC at the Canyons, the guard having the good sense to raise the flimsy barrier when he heard the sirens and realized the onslaught was not slowing down, let alone stopping at his shack.

  As they approached the club's residential section, Brass cut his siren and Grissom behind him followed suit, the patrol cars, too. Brass squealed the vehicle to a halt in front of Dayton's driveway, where the garage doors were down, though a familiar black SUV roosted out front of the castlelike house.

  As Brass raced across the lawn, not bothering with the winding sidewalk, Sara and Warrick practically jumped out of the Tahoe to fall in behind him. Grissom moved off on his own, edging toward the driveway. Already standing on the porch were Catherine and Nick, glancing back with puzzled expressions.

  Rushing to the steps, Brass stopped and looked up at them, figuring they'd heard his call for backup on the radio. "How'd you guys beat me here?"

  "We didn't know you were on the way," Catherine said, lifting her eyebrows. "We're here to serve the warrant for Dayton's DNA."

  "You got a warrant?" Brass asked, amazed.

  Catherine said, "Yeah, Judge Landry."

  Brass, frowning, was shaking his head. "All we had was the bruised hand…"

  "And the news that Dayton was on a weekend pass when Vincent Drake got killed."

  Nick said, "Dayton's old man helped keep the judge off the federal bench, y'know…and that Dayton family lawyer, Carlisle Deams, took part."

  Brass found himself grinning. "Shrewd choice of judges, Cath."

  Her smile was wicked. "Gil may hate politics, Jim, but it can cut both ways."

  "I been knocking and ringing the bell," Nick said, jerking a thumb at the double doors. "Our boy doesn't seem to be home. What brought you on the run?"

  "We found signs of a big struggle at Brower's house," Brass said, "and Grissom just snagged Dayton's earring, processing the scene."

  "What," Catherine said, "that diamond D?"

  "Dee one and dee same," Brass said.

  Nick hit the bell again, but no one seemed to be coming; while they waited, Brass called for Carrack and Jalisco to bring the ram.

  From the street, Grissom called out, "Trail of fresh oil! Looks like Mark Brower's car hasn't been fixed yet."

  Carrack and Jalisco hit the doors with the ram, right where they met, blowing them open with a satisfying crunch.

  Then Grissom was in their midst, a referee with a flag on the play; he was slipping on latex gloves.

  With quiet authority, the CSI supervisor said to Brass, "I want gloves on everybody-this may be a crime scene. We do not want to compromise anything that could put a serial killer away."

  Brass said, "Same page," and gloves were snapped on before the entire group entered the house, guns drawn-even the notoriously gun-hating Gil Grissom.

  Beyond a surprisingly small entry loomed a high-ceilinged living room, appointed in stark white with expensive yet oddly bland furnishings. An open doorway to the right revealed a huge kitchen, while a hallway to the left led to two stairways, one up, one down; a door on the left presumably opened into the attached garage, while at the end of the hall was a bathroom smaller than a ballroom, another hallway peeling off at right.

  Sara and Nick moved into the kitchen. Jalisco and Catherine went upstairs; Warrick and Carrack took the living room, leaving Brass and Grissom to head downstairs into the basement.

  * * *

  As Sara Sidle followed Nick into the kitchen, he ducked slightly as he swept his pistol around the room; Sara stayed high, fanning in the opposite direction.

  The large modern kitchen was empty-it seemed scrupulously scrubbed to Sara, even compared to her own much tinier but still tidy one. With all the gleaming polished chrome and steel, she was reminded more of an operating room than a kitchen-which was not a particularly comforting thought.

  A pass-through on the left provided a window into the empty dinin
g room. Next to that was a doorway between the two rooms.

  The only thing out of place was a pink-tinged towel in the sink. Sara could hear Nick's breathing next to her, short quick bursts, the tension getting to him, too.

  She nodded toward the towel. "Blood?"

  "Could be," he said, his voice low. Then into his radio, he said, "Kitchen clear."

  Going back the way they had come, Sara led Nick down the hall, toward the garage door.

  Upstairs, Jalisco slipped into a bedroom to the left while Catherine Willows watched the two doors to the right-wouldn't do to have a demented serial killer spring at them from behind.

  Or was there any other kind of serial killer, than demented?

  "Guest room," Jalisco said. "Clear."

  Catherine crossed past the stairwell to the first door on the right, heart pounding but her hands cool around the pistol grip. She always felt nervous in these situations-a little edge was a good thing-but never scared. Of all the nightshift CSIs, she had fired her weapon on the job most often, and had several kills to (what she did not like to think of as) her "credit." Trained well, and trusting of that training, she still felt completely in control-even though, like any cop in such a situation, she had no idea what might lay around the next corner or behind the nearest door…

  …like the one on the right, which was open.

  She stepped in quickly, swept the large bathroom with her handgun.

  Everything was white, walls, towels, fixtures, rug, and of the highest quality, but nothing in this blizzard seemed out of place. She brushed back the white shower curtain to make sure no one was in the tub, then called to Jalisco: "Clear."

  The last room upstairs, another bedroom, had been converted into an office. An L-shaped desk took up half the room, a huge desktop computer tucked underneath, an equally big monitor perched above.

  Jalisco checked the closet while Catherine looked around the room. Walls were bare and white, desk was pale gray, the computer a pale gray as well, very little sign of use-a few books, the usual dictionary and thesaurus and so on, neatly between bookends, and a box of paper. The atmosphere was vaguely impersonal, even institutional, as if Dayton had become so used to Sundown, he'd brought that feel home with him.

  Jalisco leaned back out the closet and said, "Clear."

  The uniformed officer pushed the button on his walkie and reported in. "Clear upstairs."

  Warrick Brown and Carrack circled like dancers with guns around the huge living room with its cathedral ceiling. Warrick spotted a formal dining room off to the right; at left, Carrack checked a fireplace that-instead of having a solid closed back-opened onto a bedroom. Moving to his right, around one end of a white leather couch, Warrick satisfied himself that the living room was empty.

  He couldn't remember the last time he had been in such a monochromatic chamber: carpeting, furniture, walls, ceiling, everything was white, with the sole exception of the black face of the wall-hanging plasma screen and the blacks with red LEDs of shelved (and elaborate) stereo equipment.

  The blankness of these surroundings chilled Warrick, and he did not chill easily. Could the Dayton family have lived this way? Or-as his instinct told him-had Jerome remodeled after their deaths, to make this castle his own?

  That was when Warrick noticed something that wasn't there: family pictures. Nowhere in the entry room or this living room, typical places for framed family photos, either on a wall or gathered on a table, was there any sign of the father and mother who had raised this only child.

  For all the money in this room, the leather, the expensive video/stereo gear, Warrick had seen hotel suites with more personality.

  Either Jerome Dayton had no personality, or he kept it well concealed…even at home.

  "Clear," Carrack reported.

  The pair moved on.

  Brass barreled down the stairs, Grissom struggling to keep up.

  This was a finished basement, the stairs emptying into a small space with doors on the right and left. Brass turned the knob of the door on the left and Grissom waited as the detective entered, finding himself in a family room with thick brown carpeting and brown sectional furniture under a row of windows that looked out over the backyard.

  A 32-inch TV on a pedestal sat against the wall on the right; the wall to the left of the door was filled with paperback-packed bookcases, while the far left wall held another door.

  Hell, Brass thought, this place has more rooms than some hotels on the Strip….

  And each one had to be cleared.

  * * *

  Sara opened the door to the garage and hit the light switch with the heel of her latexed palm-a fingerprint-preserving habit of hers.

  Two cars were parked within: a new late-model white Lexus; and an older blue Dodge so filthy it was a wonder no prankish finger had written WASH ME in the grime. She and Nick moved carefully through, looking behind boxes and under a tool bench, making sure no one was hiding.

  Finally Nick knelt to peer under the Dodge.

  "Oil leak, all right," he said.

  He rose and opened the passenger door, called back, "Keys in dash," then flicked the glove compartment open. He pulled out the registration and read aloud: "Mark Brower."

  Sara pushed the talk button on her radio. "Garage clear. We have Brower's car, a very dirty Dodge."

  Brass nodded when he heard Sara's voice come over the radio.

  He checked over his shoulder, to see if Grissom had followed him into the family room, which he had; then Brass moved to the door at the back, grabbed a breath, hefted his pistol, and turned the knob.

  Warrick and Carrack had gone down the hall, passing the door to the garage, taking a right into the bedroom that had been visible through the shared fireplace.

  No one was in here, at least on first look.

  This was obviously the master bedroom, and the stark white decorating theme persisted with a dresser, bureau, and four-poster bed.

  Carrack checked the walk-in closet while Warrick entered another huge bathroom. Didn't take him long to find a pink-tinged wash cloth in the shower stall. Even without lab results, the CSI knew he was looking at a blood stain.

  "Warrick!" Carrack called from the walk-in closet.

  At the patrolman's side, Warrick followed Carrack's pointing finger to a pile of clothes next to the hamper: jeans with several dark spots on the legs and a blue T-shirt with a dark splotch on the front, which also appeared to be blood.

  Into his walkie, Carrack said, "Bedroom clear."

  Following up, Warrick said into his radio, "Gris-we have blood-stained clothing up here. Copy that?"

  "Copy," came Grissom's voice.

  In the basement, following Warrick's news of blood-stained clothing, Brass switched off his walkie-talkie.

  Much as he liked keeping the flow of information alive between teams, he did not want the cross-talk giving away his and Grissom's position.

  Beyond the family room, he found himself in a bedroom.

  But not just a bedroom, and not another room in this largely featureless house, painting itself an innocent white.

  "Gil," Brass said. "You're gonna love this…."

  The "bedroom" was more like a dungeon; oh, there was indeed a bed in it, a simple black bed with black silk sheets, centered in the middle of the room; but there were no windows in here, and as both men got out their flashlights and flicked them on, the darkness of the room was only heightened by illumination.

  The walls were painted a flat black; the carpet was black indoor-outdoor. Shackles hung from the ceiling at the four corners of the bed, and an amazing array of rough-trade instruments hung on the wall to the left, the tools of a sadist's workshop. Though the blackness made them difficult to discern, knobs gave away doors at left and right on the wall opposite.

  Brass felt Grissom move up beside him.

  "Door number one," Brass whispered, "or door number two?"

  "Lady or the tiger?" the CSI supervisor replied with a terrible little smile.
>
  But Brass never had to choose.

  The door at left opened and a blood-drenched Jerry Dayton stepped into the room. Nude except for a flimsy pair of jockeys, the young man froze when he saw the pistols leveled at him, then raised his left hand against the glare of the flashlights.

  His right hand remained behind his slightly turned body.

  "Show me your hands, Jerry," Brass said tightly.

  "Lower the light," Dayton countered. "I can't see a damn thing!"

  Neither flashlight moved.

  "Show me your goddamn hands," Brass said, taking a half-step toward his suspect.

  The hand came up, but as it did, Dayton flung something…

  …something warm and mushy that struck Brass in the cheek, the detective firing, the sound like a thunderclap in the enclosed space, Dayton ducking to his left, the object he'd tossed flopping to the floor.

  Grissom's beam found what had hit his friend in the face, putting a small spotlight on a severed human forefinger that seemed to point back at the CSI; its ragged bloody end leeched red.

  At the same time, Brass's beam caught Dayton darting through the door on the right, leaving it open.

  Brass yelled, "Freeze!"

  But the suspect was gone.

  "Dayton is yours," Grissom said, and slipped past him to go in the lefthand door.

  Alone now, Brass shone the flashlight through the ajar door at right, then went after the suspect.

  Even before the blood-streaked, near-naked figure had emerged into the black room, Gil Grissom had heard someone moaning.

  Though his weapon was in hand, Grissom hadn't fired when Dayton literally flipped a finger at Brass, the CSI hesitating for fear of striking his friend, who flinched into his line of fire.

  "Grissom! Grissom!" The voice was Sara's in the walkie-talkie. "We heard a shot-are you all right? What's going on?"

  "Stay put," Grissom said into the walkie. "Brass is in pursuit of Dayton-keep all possible exits blocked!"

  He clicked off.

  Grissom's ears still rang from the gun as he moved out of the black bedroom, but he could make out the moaning, despite his compromised hearing.