Binding Ties

'What we do know,' Brass said, getting on board, 'is…again, taking Holowell at his word…that about eighty- five to ninety percent of the employees don't have keys.'

Grissom smiled. 'Exactly, Jim…Sara, information is our currency, you know that. The account grows little by little, one tiny piece at a time. But it grows.'

With a sucking-lemon expression, Brass said, 'Sounds like my savings account.'

The trio had moved only a short distance when David Paquette popped out of a side office that bordered the bullpen. He wore a blue shirt and blue-and-gold striped tie, sleeves rolled more than once; he seemed both more harried and less pristine than his publisher, the fluorescent lighting bouncing off his own balding pate.

'What brings the LVPD to the enemy camp?' he asked, kidding on the square.

'Appointment with Mr. Holowell,' Grissom said.

Paquette waved for them to follow him back into his office, a third the size of Holowell's, barely bigger than a cubicle, his desk was a boxy metal job with a much smaller monitor and piles of papers.

After shutting the door, their host did not get behind the desk, nor did he invite his guests to sit down; they stood in a loose huddle.

'What did you see James about?' Paquette asked. His tone had a sense of betrayal in it.

'What do you think?' Brass said. 'Police business.'

Paquette snorted. 'Who do you think you're tryin' to hose here? I know there was another murder!' He pointed an accusing finger at them, each getting a turn. 'And do I hear one peep out of you guys about it? No-you aren't talking to me or Bell, or Brower for that matter. Did we have a deal or not?'

Grissom's forehead was tensed; this was his version of a frown. 'What makes you think there's been another CASt killing?'

Paquette grunted a deep humorless laugh. 'I didn't say I thought there was another murder, I said I know there was. What, are you so self-important and self- deluded, you imagine I don't have other sources in the LVPD?'

Grissom offered what may have seemed to Paquette a non sequitur: 'David, do you have your keycard on you?'

'What?'

'Your Banner keycard.'

Paquette stuffed a hand in his pants pocket, fished for a few seconds, and indeed withdrew a keycard.

'What's your interest in this?' the editor asked.

Grissom pulled the evidence bag out of his pocket but kept the contents tightly wrapped in his fist. 'If I show you this piece of evidence, I need an assurance.'

'What the hell kind of assurance?'

'That our arrangement is still intact and in force. You run nothing in the Banner till we give you the all clear.'

'After you held out on me? What a load of-'

'Hear me out,' Grissom said, evidence still concealed in his grasp. 'This is something only my lab knows about-it won't be in any of the other media. And it's of particular importance to your paper.'

Paquette's natural newsman inquisitiveness took over. 'I'm listening.'

Grissom knew he had the editor, but he tightened the screws: 'And we still have a deal, agreed?'

Paquette was shaking his head, but he said, 'Agreed.'

Letting the bag unfurl like a flag, Grissom revealed the keycard, its Las Vegas Banner label plainly visible to the editor.

'Yes, there has been another murder, as you know,' Grissom said. 'But what you-and none of the media knows-is the victim had this item clutched in his hand.'

'No way,' Paquette said, eyes popping. 'Whose is it?'

'We don't know,' Brass said.

'That's what you were talking to my boss about!'

Grissom said, 'We can't reveal our sources.'

'Screw you, Grissom! This, this doesn't mean someone at the Banner is responsible for the murders…' Anger and frustration flared in his voice. '…It could have been stolen, and planted at the scene!'

'Gee thanks,' Brass said. 'Where would we be without a true-crime writer like you to develop our theories for us?'

'Screw you, too, Brass.'

The detective moved closer to the editor. 'You and your pal Perry were closer to the CASt case than anybody this side of the P. D. insiders or the goddamn victims. You think this keycard turning up in a victim's cold little hand is a coincidence?'

Paquette began to speak, but then thought better of it.

'Where is Perry?' Brass asked.

Paquette's eyes were on the evidence bag now, probably wondering if his collaborator had become a murderer. 'He's…out of town for a few days. Wanted to see Patty before school started.'

'Patty?' Grissom asked.

Brass and Paquette answered simultaneously. 'His daughter.'

'She's a sophomore at UCLA,' Paquette added. 'She'll be starting the school year soon, and, hey, he's her dad-he wanted to spend some quality time with her, before her schedule got too busy.'

'When was the last time you saw Perry?' Brass asked.

'Day before yesterday,' the editor said.

Before Diaz's murder,Sara thought. Maybe their pool of suspects wasn't so big after all; maybe it was more a hot tub….

'How can we get a hold of Mr. Bell?' Grissom asked.

'Cell phone, I guess,' the editor said.

'I've got that number,' Brass said.

'Listen, he wouldn't do this,' Paquette said. 'He just doesn't have that in him.'

Brass smirked, shook his head. 'You and I both know that the only reason Perry Bell still has a job here is your guilt over the success you got from the book. You swam upstream, but ol' Perry's just treading water. He's still a journeyman crime writer, riding what little fame is left from your long-ago project…which just happens to be about the CASt serial-killer case.'

The editor seemed more embarrassed than intimidated by Brass's diatribe.

After a moment, Paquette finally said, 'Suppose Perry does have a job because of me, how in God's name does that make him a…a killer?'

'Maybe it doesn't,' Brass said. 'But that kid Brower's doing most of the work now, and Perry's got to be feeling the breath on his neck. You stay in the same job long enough, you get to feel like a dinosaur-what better way to rejuvenate his career than to resurrect CASt's career? The killer who gave him his fifteen minutes of fame?'

The editor wasn't buying it. 'Perry, some kind of cold-blooded copycat? Hell, Jim-that'd make him an even sicker S. O. B. than the original CASt! Listen, I know Perry, and he's got a heart of gold- you know him, over the years you've cooperated with him and he with you. Good, decent guy. I'm telling you, this is not him.'

Brass said, 'Fine. So where was he when Sandred died?'

Shrugging, Paquette said, 'How should I know?'

'You're his immediate superior here at the paper.'

'…He was out of the office.'

'The other murder was yesterday morning. Do you know where he was then?'

'I told you! Visiting his daughter. Being a father, and a decent human being! You and Grissom ought to try it for a change!…Now, I have work to do.'

He hustled them out.

The door shut behind them, and the two CSIs and the homicide captain were once again out in the bustling