Binding Ties

'I see your point, but then, remember, Nick, on the other hand-we're very, very good.'

He chuckled. 'Yeah. Yeah, I almost forgot….'

On Miller Avenue, Nick parked the Tahoe at the curb in front of a low-slung stucco, which was a single story but for the west end, where a second story rose into a church-like steeple; the one-story portion had a window with the bold black-outlined-red words FIND SALVATION MISSION AND SHELTER, and the two-story portion had room for a mural of an idealized praying Jesus, amateur enough to have been done by one of the mission's tenants, sincere enough to give Catherine a momentary heart tug.

They walked through the front door into what might have been the lobby of a rundown hotel: a scattering of overstuffed hand-me-down chairs and sofas around a large open room, tables covered with magazines so old they might have been collectible, in less dog-eared shape; the occasional Bible mingled with the mags. Sunshine slanted in, film noir-style, thanks to partly drawn blinds on the front window, providing light and shadow. Off to the right yawned a wide wooden staircase with oak railings that would be about the only thing worth salvaging if a wrecking ball were ever scheduled here.

A thin, sixty-something silver-haired man, whose week-or-so-worth of stubble threatened to become a beard, was sunk deep in an armchair; immersed in the sports section of the morning paper, he wore a very faded, possibly original vintage Star Wars T-shirt and faded-to-white jeans, which were accidently in style, and apparently had not noticed their entry. Behind a hotel-like check-in desk, opposite the front door, a thin youngish woman with mousy brown hair and black-frame glasses looked up from a religious magazine she had been reading; her oval face, bearing no trace of makeup, was not unattractive. She wore a clean, crisp white men's dress shirt and black slacks; her manner was professional, and the simple gold-cross necklace spoke volumes.

'May I help you?' she asked pleasantly.

Catherine had a necklace, too, and lifted the ID badge on its chain for the woman to get a better look. 'Catherine Willows, Nick Stokes.'

'Oh,' the woman said. 'Crime Lab? Well, we haven't had any crimes here in a long time. Haven't reported anything…untoward.'

'Normally a detective would come around,' Catherine said, 'but the department is stretched a little thin right now, and we're on an important case.'

'I see.' Her hands were folded, appropriately enough, in a prayerlike fashion. 'Well, the mission's policy is twofold. We of course help the authorities in any way we can. But we also respect the privacy and dignity of our guests.'

'We're not here to arrest anyone,' Catherine said. 'We're doing background work, following up on an old case that may have a bearing on a new one.'

Nick shrugged, smiled his easy smile, and said, 'We just want to chat with one of your guests. Fill in some blanks.'

Catherine's tap dance, and Nick's charm, merged to do the trick.

'Who would you like to chat with?'

Catherine said, 'Dallas Hanson.'

The woman's eyes flicked toward where the old-timer had been sitting with his sports page; however, when Catherine glanced back, the old man was gone.

'Where did Obi-Wan Kenobi go?' Catherine asked Nick.

He shrugged. 'I don't know-we had our backs to him. Maybe he transported outta here.'

'Wrong show,' Catherine said. Turning back to the woman, she asked sternly, 'Was that Dallas Hanson?'

'Some of our guests have-'

Catherine cut her off. 'Privacy and dignity, I know. But this is a murder investigation. Was that him, or not?'

The woman sucked in breath through her nostrils, and tried to stand firm as the authority figure in charge of this desk; but in three seconds, she had withered under Catherine's stare. 'No. No, that wasn't him.'

The CSIs moved away from the woman's post.

'Outside,' Catherine said to Nick, with a gesture toward the door. 'If Obi-Wan's warning someone in here, we might have an early checkout, out a window.'

'What about those stairs?'

'Mine.'

Nick's expression said he didn't love her plan; but she was the senior officer, and he tore through the lobby and out the door.

Catherine ran to the stairs, taking them two at a time, easing her head out when she got to the second floor.

Nothing.

Nothing but an open door about halfway down, on the left, the side of the hall whose rooms might have windows facing the back alley. Assuming this was the right room, Catherine hoped Nick was on his way around. Tough for one man to cover all four sides of a building….

She let the heel of her hand slide down until it touched the butt of her pistol, reassuring herself of its presence. Then she started down the corridor, the pungent smell of disinfectant tweaking her nostrils.

At the open door she ducked in and found the silver-haired near-codger from the lobby hovering over another man, who lay in the cot along the lefthand wall in the cell-like room. A small, square, endlessly scuffed wooden table and two mismatched kitchen chairs were by the only window, and a squat bureau took up a fair piece of the righthand wall.

To the man in the bed, the silver-haired man said, 'You sure this is what you want, Dal?'

The bedridden man must have nodded, because the silver-haired man shrugged and said, 'Your call, buddy,' and stepped aside.

That gave Catherine her first look at the sunken-cheeked scarecrow on the cot. His hair was graying too, if less rapidly than his friend, and he had shaved recently, maybe even yesterday. But his skin was as gray as his hair, and his eyes were a plea for mercy-not from Catherine, but God.

'Dallas Hanson?' Catherine asked.

The man on the cot nodded. It took some effort.

'I'd like to talk to you.'

He had sunken cheeks, high cheekbones, and a prominent forehead that made his narrow face look like a skewed metal framework full of sharp angles with skin thinly stretched over it.

'Pretty woman like you?' he said pleasantly, his voice surprisingly deep. 'Sure. Don't get much company of your…caliber.'

He looked small and bony beneath the blankets.

She got her radio out and pushed a button and said, 'Nick, our man's not running. We're in…' She looked at the door, which was white and recently painted; a plastic card in a slot said: 218. She told Nick.

Nick said he was on his way.

She glanced at the silver-haired man, who looked embarrassed. 'Gonna help your friend take the back way out, huh?'

'No law against stopping by a buddy's room,' the old guy said, his voice midrange, quavery. 'Or is this a fascist state already?'

'This is a murder investigation. Do you really think standing in its way is a good idea?'

He didn't answer, just put his head down, eyes not meeting hers, and started for the door.

As he passed, Catherine said, 'A lot of people could have gotten hurt because of you.'

The man paused, then looked at her; his eyes were bloodshot, rheumy. 'Everybody in here, lady, is hurting already. You got a badge and real nice clothes. We got each other.'

Catherine began to say something, then thought about what the woman at the desk had said about the privacy and dignity of the 'guests'; and said nothing as the old boy, chin on his chest, walked out.