a grim sense of purpose. Grissom watched, a faint smile not softening the hardness of his eyes.
As he was heading out, Warrick turned to Grissom and the two men's eyes locked. 'Gris, Barry can run . . .'
'But he can't hide,' Grissom said.
18
MAINTAINING A LOW PROFILE IN THIS HIGH-RENT NEIGHBORhood would have been damn-near impossible; so Jim Brass didn't even try. In the early morning sunshine, dew still dappling, the cramped court looked like the Circus Circus parking lot: the two Tahoes and Brass's Taurus were parked in front of the Hyde residence, and two Henderson PD black-and-whites were pulled into the driveway across the street (Brass had not been about to repeat his
Neighbors-some in bathrobes, others fully dressed-came out to gawk as the CSI group, led by Grissom and Brass, stepped from their vehicles, a little army removing their sunglasses and snapping on latex gloves. For July, the morning was surprisingly cool, and Warrick and Nick wore dark windbreakers labelled FORENSICS -this was in part psychological, a way to inform the onlookers that this was serious business, and they should keep back and stay away. As the team approached the house, each CSI carried his or her own equipment, each already handed a specific assignment for the scene by Supervisor Grissom.
Warrick would track down the shoes, Nick dust for prints, and Sara handle the camera work. Catherine would join Grissom as the designated explorers, their job to search out the more obscure places, seeking the more elusive clues. Brass-the only one not in latex gloves-would take care of Hyde.
As they marched up the sidewalk to the front door, an aura of anxiety burbled beneath the professionalism.
'Think he might start something?' Nick asked, obviously remembering the close call at the Kostichek house.
At Nick's side, Warrick shook his head, perhaps too casually. 'Why should he? Sucker thinks he's Superman. We ain't laid a glove on him yet.'
Brass heard this exchange, and basically agreed with Warrick-but just the same, he approached the door cautiously. He held the warrant in his left hand, his jacket open so that he could easily reach the holstered pistol on his hip. Behind him, Grissom motioned his crew-their hands filled with field kits and other equipment, looking like unwanted relatives showing up for a long stay-away from the door, corralling them in front of the two-car garage.
With a glance over his shoulder, Brass ascertained the CSIs were out of the line of fire; then he slowly moved forward. The front door-recessed between the living room on the left and the garage on the right-reminded the detective of the room doors at the Beachcomber, providing a funny little resonance, and a problem: if something went wrong, only Grissom-barely visible, peering around the corner like a curious child-would see what happened.
Nick's words of apprehension playing like a tape loop in his brain-'Think he might try something?'-Brass, within the alcove-like recession, stepped to the right of the door, took a deep breath, let it out . . . and knocked, hard and insistently.
Nothing.
He waited . . .
. . . he pressed the doorbell . . .
. . . and still nothing.
Glancing back at Grissom-who gave him a questioning look-Brass shrugged, turned back, and knocked once more.
Still no response.
Grissom moved carefully forward to join the homicide cop, the rest of the crew trailing behind.
'I don't think our boy's home,' Brass said.
Grissom reached out and, with a gentle latex touch, turned the knob.
The door swung slowly open, in creaking invitation, Brass and Grissom both signaling for the group to get out of the potential line of fire.
'Open?' Brass said to Grissom. 'He left it open?'
'Cat and mouse,' Grissom said. 'That's our man's favorite game. . . .'
They listened, Brass straining to hear the slightest sound, the faintest hint of life-Grissom was doing the same.
Long moments later, they traded eyebrow shrugs, signifying neither had heard anything, except the sounds of a suburban home-refrigerator whir, air-conditioning rush, ticking clocks. Drawing his pistol, Brass moved forward into the foyer of the modern, spare, open house-lots of bare wood and stucco plaster and stonework.
Grissom said to Warrick, 'Tell those uniformed officers to watch our back. Then join us inside.'
'On it,' Warrick said, and trotted toward Henderson's finest.
Then Grissom and the other CSIs joined Brass, inside.
A wide staircase to a second-floor landing loomed before them; hallways parallel to the stairway were on its either side, leading to the back of the house-kitchen and family room, maybe. At right was the door to the attached garage, and at left a doorless doorway opened onto the living room.
The loudest thing in the quiet residence was Brass's own slow breathing, and the shoes of the team screaking on the hardwood floor.
In a loud voice-startling a couple of the CSIs-Brass called out,
The words rang a bit, caught by the stairwell, but then . . .
'Simon and Garfunkle,' Sara said.
Brass looked at her.
'Sounds of silence,' the CSI replied, with a shrug.
Brass eased forward and turned left into the living room, his pistol leveled-a big, open, cold room with a picture window, a central metal fireplace, and spare Southwestern touches, including a Georgia O'Keefe cow-skull print over a rust-color two-seater sofa.
'Clear!' Brass called, when he came back into the foyer, Warrick had already joined Nick, Sara, Catherine and Grissom, who were fanning out-firearms in hand, an unusual procedure for these crime scene investigators, but the precaution was vital.
Opening the door to the attached garage, Nick flipped the light switch and went in, pistol at the ready. After a quick look around, he yelled, 'Clear.'
They went from room to room on the first floor-Brass, Nick, and Warrick-checking each one. Grissom and Catherine-weapons in their latexed hands-stood at the bottom of the open stairway, to make sure Hyde didn't surprise them from above.
When Brass, Nick and Warrick returned to the foyer, they all shook their heads-nobody downstairs. Brass then led the way up the stairs, with the same combo of guns and caution, and they inspected the second floor the same way.
'It's all clear,' Brass said, returning to the top of the stairs, holstering his handgun. 'Barry Hyde has left the building.'
'Okay,' Grissom said, obviously pleased to be putting the gun away, 'let's get to work. You all know what to do.'
Sara unpacked her camera, Nick his fingerprint kit and they went to work as a team. Catherine and Warrick disappeared into other parts of the house.
Adrenaline still pumped through Brass as he came down the stairs. 'Couldn't the son of a bitch have done us the courtesy of just opening the door and getting indignant about his rights and his goddamn privacy?'
'You're just longing again,' Grissom said, 'for those days when you could shoot a perp and then say 'freeze.' '
'That approach has its merits.'
