Double Dealer

'So is he not home . . . or is he gone?'

'I said he might be a flight risk.'

Grissom nodded, starting up the steps. 'I'll check his clothes, his toiletries-see if there are any suitcases in the house.'

Brass moved into the living room, where Sara was snapping photos that would comprise a three-hundred- sixty-degree view of the room, working from that central fireplace. As she moved on to another room, Brass poked around. The front wall consisted of one huge mullioned window looking out onto the street, and that lone sapling in the front yard.

A television the size of a compact car filled most of the west wall to Brass's left. A set of shelves next to the TV was filled with stereo equipment, several VCRs, a DVD player, and a couple of electronic components Brass didn't even recognize. On shelves over the television sat a collection of DVD movies, most of which Brass had never heard of. I have to get out more, he thought.

Opposite the entertainment center sat a huge green leather couch and a matching recliner squatted along the shorter southern wall. Next to the recliner and at the far end of the couch were oak end tables supporting lighter-green modernistic table lamps with soft white shades. A matching oak coffee table, low-slung in front of the couch, displayed a scattering of magazines with subscription stickers to BARRY HYDE and a few stacks of opened mail and loose papers.

Grissom came in, saying, 'No clothes seem to be missing, but it's hard to say. Closet with suitcases seems undisturbed, and all the normal toiletries-toothbrush and paste, aftershave, deodorant-seem to be at home.'

'So maybe he's just out for breakfast. Or putting bullets in somebody else's brain.'

'You find anything yet?'

Brass pointed at the line of movie cases on top of the television. 'I found out I haven't seen a movie since John Wayne died.'

Without sarcasm, Grissom asked, 'And this is pertinent how?'

The detective shook his head. This was one of the reasons he liked Grissom: the scientist had little use for the outside world, either. His universe consisted of his calling and the people he worked with; beyond that, not much seemed to get Grissom's attention.

'Nothing pertinent about it,' Brass said. 'Just a social observation.'

Kneeling, Grissom started going through the material on the coffee table. Brass plopped down on the couch, watching as the criminalist leafed through Hyde's magazines. Several were vacation guides, one was a Hustler, and the last one a copy of Forbes.

'Varied reading list,' Grissom said.

'Travel, sex, money,' Brass said. 'American dream.'

Loose papers, in with the mail, included various reports from the video store, a folded copy of a recent Sun, and an A-to-Z memo pad-an address in black ballpoint scrawled on the top sheet.

Holding up the pad, Grissom asked, 'Familiar address?'

'Marge Kostichek?'

'That's right. Why do you think Barry Hyde has Marge Kostichek's address in his home? In the same stack including a newspaper with an account of the discovery of a certain mummified body?'

'I could maybe come up with a reason.'

'But if he's expecting us-if he knows he's on the spot-why leave this lying around?'

Brass considered that. 'More cat and mouse?'

Grissom's eyes tightened. 'Maybe he hasn't been home since we talked to him. Get Sara, would you, Jim? I want a picture of this.'

Outside a horn blared, and both men looked through the picture window to see a huge semi-truck, out in the suburban street, apparently somewhat blocked by the two curbed SUVs. The driver of the van blew the horn again, and the Henderson cops-who were parked in the driveway of the home across the street-were approaching.

Sara's voice came from the kitchen. 'What's going on out there?'

Brass and Grissom looked at the moving van, then at each other. From Grissom's expression, Brass found it a safe bet that the criminalist had a similar sick sinking feeling in his stomach. . . .

'Let's go outside and talk,' Brass said, rising from the sofa, his voice lighter than his thoughts.

Grissom got up, too, saying, 'You guys keep working.'

The CSIs did, but in strained silence; something in Grissom's voice had been troubling. . . .

Following Grissom outside, Brass felt a headache, like a gripping hand, taking hold of him. Every time they got a goddamn break in this case, it evaporated before they could play it out! And he knew, damnit, he just knew, it was happening again. . . .

The coveralled driver-heavyset, about twenty-five, with sweaty dark hair matted to his forehead and a scruffy brown mustache and goatee-had already climbed down out of his cab to talk to the Henderson uniformed men. The latter moved aside as Brass and Grissom came quickly up, meeting the driver in the street, in front of the van. Another guy-a mover-was still seated up in the cab; he had the bored look of the worker at the start of a thankless day.

Brass flashed his badge. 'What are you guys doing here?'

Not particularly impressed by the badge, the mover said, 'What do you think? We're here to move furniture.'

'What furniture?'

He pointed to the Hyde residence. 'That furniture.'

'There must be a mistake,' Brass said.

Fishing a sheet of paper from his pocket, the mover said, 'Fifty-three Fresh Pond Court.'

Brass and Grissom traded a look.

'Show me,' Brass said.

Rolling his eyes, the mover handed the sheet of paper over to Brass.

'This seems to be in order,' Brass said, reading it, giving Grissom a quick look, then handing the paper back.

Grissom asked, 'How were you supposed to get in? Was someone supposed to meet you here?'

The mover shrugged. 'Guy on the phone said the police would be here to let us in . . . and here you are.'

'When did this work order come through?'

'Just now-I mean, they called the twenty-four-hour hotline. It was a rush job. They paid extra-through the nose, better believe it.'

'Son of a bitch,' Grissom said, and sprinted toward the nearest Tahoe.

Brass yelled at the mover, 'Get that truck out of here-now!'

'But . . .'

'There's a murder investigation going on. You touch that furniture, you're in violation of a warrant.'

'Maybe I oughta see-'

'Get the hell out of here!' Brass blurted, and the mover jumped. Brass planted himself and glared at the guy and, finally, the man climbed back into the truck and ground the gears into reverse. As the moving van backed slowly up the court, Grissom was cranking the Tahoe around; then he pulled up next to Brass.

'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.