Double Dealer

but we've been looking for him ourselves, for a long, long time. And that's why I'm here-to share information.'

'Well thank you,' Grissom said. 'Let me think-when was the last time the FBI shared anything? Blame excluded.'

Leaning forward, wearing a disingenuous grin, Culpepper said, 'I know we've had our differences in the past, Grissom-but this is a crucial matter. It relates to a plethora of organized crime matters. Consider this a heads up, if nothing else-this guy is bad people.'

Grissom remained cautious, skeptical. 'Which is why you're going to help us catch him?'

'Yes, oh yes-he needs to be stopped . . . and your unit, and Detective Brass and his fine contingent of investigators, seem to have the best shot at finally doing it.'

'. . . Right.'

'In fact,' Culpepper said, 'I've already forwarded our files to Detective Brass-everything we have on the Deuce.'

'That is cooperative,' Grissom said. He didn't tell Culpepper that he and Brass were already on the trail.

Culpepper beamed. 'Now, you want to tell me what you have?'

'Anything to cooperate,' Grissom said.

He didn't want to give up anything, but Gil Grissom knew how to play the game. He gave Culpepper the basics of the Beachcomber shooting-information he was pretty sure the FBI agent already had. He left out, among other things, the videotape evidence; and said nothing about the mummy at all. When he finally finished, he looked at Culpepper's insincere grin and said, 'Now what?'

'Nothing in particular,' Culpepper said, rising. 'Just nice to know we can work together like this.'

And he gave Grissom his hand, which Grissom accepted-the agent's flesh cool, clammy-and when Culpepper had gone, Grissom sat there for a while, looking at his own palm, as if thinking of running it through the lab.

10

THESE LINKED MURDER INVESTIGATIONS REPRESENTED JUST the sort of case Jim Brass needed-not that he'd ever admit it to anyone, himself included.

Since his unceremonious return trip to Homicide, after the Holly Gribbs debacle, many of his colleagues avoided him as if he were a terminal case. Sheriff Brian Mobley spoke to Brass only when necessary. In recent months, Brass had, whenever possible, avoided Mobley, and would have ducked out fifteen minutes ago if the sheriff hadn't ordered him to come in and provide an update.

With no enthusiasm, Brass knocked on the wooden door with Mobley's name and rank inscribed in raised white letters. After losing command of the Criminalistics Bureau, Brass had been reduced to a plastic nameplate on an anonymous metal desk in the bullpen.

'Come in,' came the muffled response.

Bright sunshine from the huge window behind Mobley's desk infused the office with a white light that Brass supposed was meant to give the sheriff the aura of God. Unfortunately, it seemed to be working.

Despite a well-tailored brown suit and crisp yellow tie, attire worthy of the chairman of the board of a small company, the redheaded, freckle-faced Mobley looked not so much youthful as adolescent, a boy playing cops and robbers . . . and the top law enforcement officer of a city of over one million souls.

'Have a seat, Jim.'

The politeness made Brass even more uneasy, but he did as instructed. The wall next to the office door was lined with shelves of law books; on the left wall, a twenty-one-inch television-tuned to CNN, at the moment, sound low-perched atop a credenza. A computer sat on a smaller table on the sheriff's left, while his desk-smaller than the Luxor-appeared, as always, neat and clutter-free. The detective in Brass wondered if the sheriff ever worked.

Brass had been under Mobley, some years before, when the latter had been captain of Homicide. In truth, the man was probably as conscientious and hardworking as anyone; but Mobley's job was more about politics, these days, than actual law enforcement.

In 1973, the Clark County Sheriff's Department and the Las Vegas Police Department merged into one entity, putting the Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department under the command of the sheriff. Now, the office more closely resembled that of a corporate CEO. Mobley was the fourth man to hold the position since the unification; rumor had it Mobley had his sights on the mayoral office.

The sheriff used a remote to switch off the television. 'Well, at least CNN hasn't picked up Dingelmann's murder yet.'

Brass nodded. 'Local press has stayed off it-mob stuff's bad for tourism.'

'You got that right-but the national press will pick up on this, and soon. Dingelmann's too high-profile for some national stringer not to connect the dots.'

'I know.'

'It's bad enough that the newspapers and the local TV picked up on this 'mummy' business. Now that's everywhere. Is it true it was our CSIs who dubbed the corpse that way?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, the press sure loved that baloney.' Sighing, the Sheriff loosened his tie. 'Tell me where we're at, Jim.'

The detective filled him in.

Mobley closed his eyes, bowed his head, and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. 'Do we really think the same asshole killed two people, fifteen years apart?'

'The CSIs are working to prove it now.'

'And?'

'Who knows?'

Mobley shook his head, scowled. 'Stay on top of this, Jim. There's a lot riding on it.'

'Sir?'

'We can look like champs if we catch this killer, or chumps if this guy gets away-bottom line'll be, we can't protect our city.'

'Yes, sir,' Brass said.

'And let's handle the FBI.'

'Sir?'

A tiny sneer curled the baby upper lip. 'Take all the help they want to give . . . but if the FBI makes the arrest, they get all the glory. Now, if we make the arrest before them . . .'

'Yes, sir.'

'Okay, go get him.'

Brass left the office, searching the halls for Grissom, wanting to tell him about Mobley's challenge, in particular the avoidance of the FBI, which put him in rare agreement with the sheriff. Instead Brass met Warrick Brown coming down the hall in the opposite direction.

'What are you still doing here?' Brass asked.

Warrick looked at his watch and laughed once and grinned. 'Overtime, I guess. I was working on stuff, lost track. I've got something I need you to do.'

Skeptical, Brass asked, 'What?'

The CSI explained about the running shoes and the different retailers.

'All right, I'll look into it. You going home?'

Shaking his head, Warrick said, 'No. I'm going to the Beachcomber to look at some more tapes.'

'Cheaper than Blockbuster. Grissom still here?'

Warrick nodded back down the hall. 'Yeah, we're all still here. Somethin' about these cases, you know, intertwined like they are-it's like a bug we all caught. Can't shake it.'

Warrick disappeared one way down the hall, Brass continued the other. He finally caught up with Grissom in the break room. They sat on opposite sides of the table.

Grissom took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and looked at Brass. 'So-tell me about our friend Brian.'

Brass gave him the whole story, concluding, 'The sheriff's hot to trot to close this case-these cases. Show