Double Dealer

Brass was glad it was such a short hop to A-to-Z Video.

The SUV squealed into the lot and slid to a stop in front of the video store. Grissom was out and running to the door before Brass even got out of his seatbelt. Working to catch up, the detective pulled even just as Grissom pushed through the door and said, 'Where's Barry Hyde?'

The cashier said, 'Mr. Hyde isn't here right now.'

Grissom cut through the store, down the middle aisle, Brass hot on his heels.

Pushing open the back-room door, Grissom demanded, 'Where is he?'

Patrick, the hapless assistant manager, merely looked up, eyes wide with fear, and he burned his fingers on his latest joint. With a yelp of pain, the kid jumped out of his chair and backed into a corner.

'Barry Hyde,' Grissom said. 'Where is he?'

'Not . . . not here. I told you guys before, he won't be back until Monday!'

Grissom pushed through a connecting door into the back room. Brass tagged after. Shelves of videos, stored displays, empty shipping boxes, and extra shelving, but no Barry Hyde. The criminalist and the cop went back through the office, where the assistant manager stood in trembling terror, the scent of weed heavy.

'Sometime soon I'll be back,' Brass said, 'and if there's any dope on these premises, your ass'll be grass.'

Patrick nodded, and Brass went after Grissom, who had already moved out into the store.

As Grissom headed toward the cashier's island, and Brass labored to catch up, a tall blond man in a well- tailored navy blue suit stepped around an endcap, and held out a video box.

The smiling cobra-Culpepper.

'You like Harrison Ford movies, Grissom?' the FBI agent asked casually, his voice pleasant, his smile smug.

'Why am I not surprised to see you here,' Grissom said, with contempt.

'This is a modern classic, Gil,' Culpepper said. 'You really should try it-cheap rental, older title, you know.'

And Culpepper held out the video: Witness.

Brass frowned, not getting it.

'I haven't seen it,' Grissom said. 'Is it about a freelance assassin in the Federal Witness Protection Program?'

Oh shit, Brass thought, as it all clicked.

'No,' Culpepper said. 'But that would make a good movie, too-don't you think?'

Grissom's voice was detached and calm, but the detective noted that the criminalist's hands were balled into fists, the knuckles white. 'You weren't looking for your Deuce, Culpepper-you already had him . . . you've had him for almost five years. You were just hanging around criminalistics, to see what we knew, learn what we found, so you could keep one step ahead.'

Leaning against the COMEDY shelf, a self-satisfied grin tugging at a corner of his cheek, Culpepper said, 'I really can't say anything on this subject. It's sensitive government information. Classified.'

'You can't say anything, because then I could have you arrested for obstruction.'

Culpepper's smile dissolved. 'You're a fine criminalist, Grissom. You and your team have done admirable work here-but it's time to pack up your little silver suitcase and go home. This is over.'

Grissom glanced at Brass. 'Those short trips Hyde was making, Jim-he wasn't doing hits. The Deuce really was retired-and Barry Hyde was off on short hops, testifying in RICO cases and such. . . . Right, Agent Culpepper?'

'No comment.'

'You people made a deal with a mad dog, and now you're protecting him, even though he's murdered two more people.'

Now Culpepper turned to Brass. 'Maybe you can explain the facts of life to your naive associate here. . . . When cases are mounted against organized crime figures-the kind of people who deal in wholesale death, through drugs and vice of every imaginable stripe-deals with devils have to be made. Grown-ups know that, Grissom-they understand choosing between the lesser of evils.'

'Compromise all you want, Culpepper,' Grissom said. 'Evidence makes no compromises-science has no opinion beyond the truth.'

The agent laughed. 'You ever consider goin' into the bumper-sticker business, buddy? Maybe you could write fortunes for fortune cookies? You have a certain gift.'

'I like the job I'm doing just fine. I'm just getting started on this case. . . .'

'No, Grissom-stick a fork in yourself. You're done.'

Grissom's eyes tightened; so did his voice. 'When I'm done, Culpepper, you'll know it-you'll be up on charges, and Barry Hyde will be on Death Row.'

'Barry Hyde?' Culpepper asked, as if the name meant nothing. 'You must be confused-there is no Barry Hyde. Within days the house on Pond Court'll be empty, and in a week, A-to-Z Video will be a vacant storefront.'

'Call Hyde whatever you want,' Grissom said. 'I've got enough evidence to arrest him for the murders of Philip Dingelmann, Malachy Fortunato and Marge Kostichek.'

'There's no one to arrest. Barry Hyde doesn't exist-it's sad when a man of your capabilities wastes time chasing windmills.'

'Barry Hyde's a sociopath, Culpepper,' Grissom said. 'What's your excuse?'

With a small sneer, Culpepper leaned in close and held Grissom's gaze with his own. 'I'm telling you as a brother officer-let it go.'

'You're not my brother.'

Culpepper shrugged; then he turned and walked quickly out of the store.

Grissom watched the exit expressionlessly, as Brass moved up beside him, saying, 'Real charmer, isn't he?'

'Snake charmer.'

'Is he right? Are we done, you think?'

'Culpepper doesn't define my job for me-does he define your job for you, Jim?'

'Hell, no!'

'Glad you feel that way. Let's get back to work.'

They drove back to the house in silence; both men were examining the situation, from the ends of their respective telescopes. The moving van still sat blocking the court, and Grissom had to park around the corner. As they walked past the truck, Brass was concerned to see no one up in the vehicle. 'Where are they?'

Grissom shook his head and headed toward the house. The other Tahoe and Brass's Taurus were still parked out front; the Henderson cops leaned against their squads, sipping something from paper cups. Trotting up the driveway, Grissom led the way through the front door. They found the two movers sitting on the stairs sipping similar cups.

Grissom and Brass nodded to the movers, who nodded back.

'Honey, I'm home!' Grissom announced, voice echoing a bit, in the foyer.

Sara came in from the kitchen, the camera still in her hands. 'Where have you been?'

'The neighborhood video store.'

Brass said, 'Hyde's flown the coop.'

Grissom asked her, 'Where's everybody?'

With appropriate gestures, she responded. 'Nick's printing the bathroom, then he'll be done. Catherine's doing the garage. Warrick found three pairs of running shoes and bagged them. I think he's . . .'

'Right here.' Warrick walked down the stairs, stopping just above the two movers. 'You guys want some more lemonade?'

They both shook their heads, sliding to one side, so Warrick could come down the stairs between them.

Warrick stood before Grissom and said, 'I'm sure one of those pairs of shoes is the right one, Gris. He had three identical pair-really liked 'em.'

'Anything else?' Grissom asked.

Nick ambled in from the bathroom. 'I've got plenty of prints . . . plus, I found this on the desk in Hyde's