Double Dealer

And Grissom could breathe again. He even blinked a few times. Hours of work, weeks of tracking, months of waiting, had come down to this. Outside were freezing temperatures, an inch and a half of snow, and his colleagues-Warrick Brown, with Sara Sidle, guarding the building's side entrances, Jim Brass covering the back, Nick Stokes standing watch out front.

Grissom and Catherine Willows-in a black silk blouse, black leather pants, a charcoal coat in her lap-sat in the courtroom watching the proceedings, just two interested citizens. Next to Catherine sat Huey Robinson, a Kansas City detective, black and burly, big as a stockyard, barely fitting into his pew. O'Riley knew Robinson-they had been in the army or Marines or something, together-and Brass had recruited the hard-nosed cop, in advance, from the local jurisdiction.

That minor debacle with the Henderson PD had reminded Jim Brass that a little interdepartmental courtesy went a long way; and Grissom had seen from Culpepper's example how a show of contempt for another PD's concerns could rankle.

Sending Grissom, his unit and Brass to Kansas City for this trial had been expensive; but Sheriff Brian Mobley had been so furious with Culpepper that he'd have spent half a year's budget, if it meant settling scores with the conniving FBI agent.

So with Mobley's help, all the jurisdictional i's had been dotted, and the t's painstakingly crossed. For this exercise to work, everything would have to be by the book.

And right now the object of that exercise was testifying behind a cheesecloth curtain-a vague shadow, but a specific voice.

'It's him,' Grissom whispered to Catherine.

Catherine nodded as she looked around the gallery, slow-scanning the faces for possible undercover FBI agents, mixed in with the citizens.

The judge said, 'Your witness, Mr. Grant.'

Rising slowly, milking the dramatics, the prosecutor said, 'Mr. X, you performed a certain task for Mr. Summers, did you not?'

'Yes, sir.'

'What was that task?'

'I killed people.'

The prosecutor turned to the jury box, letting that sink in; then said, 'On more than one occasion?'

'Yes. Three times.'

'Did he pay you to assassinate one of his competitors-a Mr. Marcus Larkin?'

'He did.'

The prosecutor started to pace in front of the white curtain. 'When was this, Mr. X?'

'Just about eight years ago. . . . It'll be eight years, February.'

For three and a half hours in the morning, the prosecutor led Barry Hyde through a description of the assassination of Marcus Larkin, a local pimp and drug dealer. When the judge called the lunch break, Grissom and Catherine ducked out of the courtroom, leaving the building, to prevent Culpepper from seeing them. Kansas City cop Robinson-who was unknown to the FBI agent-stayed behind to keep an eye on things.

Catherine suggested grabbing Hyde at the lunch break, but Grissom knew that could put them at odds not just with the FBI, but with a pissed-off federal judge.

'Better we wait,' he told her, in the corridor, 'till Hyde's testified and the judge doesn't have any further use for him.'

So they sat in the rental van, eating sub sandwiches for lunch. The car heater thrummed, throwing out more hot air than the attorneys inside, though never enough to satisfy these desert dwellers, who were literally out of their element in this cold, snowy clime.

'There's Culpepper,' Catherine said, pointing to the FBI agent, as he strode up the Federal Courthouse's wide front walk. They watched him disappear into the building.

'That's our cue,' Grissom said.

'Yeah. Remember, we got deliveries to make first.'

Grissom carried the sandwiches and Catherine the tray of cups of hot coffee-the latter at least a token effort toward thawing the CSIs assigned to standing outside in a wind chill barely above zero.

They came to Sara's station first. In her black parka with the hood pulled up and drawn tight, only her nose seeming to peek out, she looked like a reluctant Eskimo. Hopping from foot to foot, she wore huge black mittens that made her hands look like useless paws.

'Oh, God,' she said when they approached. 'I thought you'd never get here. I'm freezing. Do people really live in this crap?'

'Stop whining,' Grissom said. 'How did you survive in Boston?'

'Alcohol-lots and lots of alcohol.'

Catherine said, 'You'll have to settle for caffeine,' and handed Sara a cup of coffee.

'Th-th-thanks.'

'Go sit in the van for a while,' Grissom said, and he handed her the keys. 'This may go all afternoon. The prosecutor took most of the morning, and the defense will take even longer. When you get warmed up, relieve Nick out front.'

'I'll never warm up,' she groused, accepting the keys and putting them into her pocket.

'This isn't any colder than Harvard yard, is it?'

Sara flipped him off, but the mittens ruined the gesture. He held a sandwich out and she took it and trudged toward the rental vehicle.

'She did a hell of a job on this,' Grissom said, watching the young woman trundle off.

'Yes she did,' Catherine said.

For these past months, on top of all of her other duties, Sara had kept tab on every mob-related federal trial across the country in an effort to determine when and where Barry Hyde would surface, to testify.

'Somebody better take this post,' Catherine said.

'Right.'

'Are you staying here or am I?'

'You.' He took the tray of coffee cups from her.

'Power corrupts, you know,' she said.

'Absolutely,' he said.

As he moved off, she called, 'Don't be a stranger. Feel free to stop back.' She pulled up the hood of her gray coat and jammed her gloved hands into her pockets.

But Grissom was actually on his way to relieve Brass, who in turn took over for Warrick. After an hour, Nick had replaced Catherine, and Warrick had taken over for Grissom, in the back of the courtroom. With a still-shivering Catherine beside him, Grissom finally got back inside the court around three-thirty, easing into their seats beside Detective Robinson.

The defense attorney was attacking Mr. X's credibility. 'Mr. X, isn't it true that you would be on Death Row if the government had not intervened and cut a deal with you?'

Behind the curtain, the shadow bounced a little as Hyde chuckled. 'No, that's not true. The authorities attempted for years to catch me. Truth is, most federal officers couldn't catch a cold.'

This elicited a nervous laugh from the gallery, and a banging of the gavel from the judge-also a warning from His Honor to Mr. X. Frowning, Culpepper turned his head away from the witness stand-almost far enough to spot Grissom. . . .

Catherine glanced at Grissom, who shook his head. Didn't see us, he mouthed.

Culpepper was facing front again.

'I turned myself in,' Mr. X went on. 'I wanted out of that filthy life. You see-I've been born again.'

That caused Catherine to smile and shake her head. As for Grissom, despite his antipathy for Hyde, he was enjoying watching the defense attorney search hopelessly for a ladder to help him climb out of the hole he had just dug himself.

Realizing too late his error, the defense attorney finally muttered, 'No further questions, Your Honor.'