Binding Ties

The guard shack that blocked their entry into TPC at the Canyons was not quite as big as Catherine's first apartment, if more nicely appointed. The air conditioner hummed quietly and the guard who came out to meet them wore pants with a crease you could slice bread with and a perfectly pressed shirt with a highly shined badge and absolutely no sign of perspiration. He was tall, muscular, and chisel-chin handsome, looking more like a golf pro than a security guard.

His mouth smiled but his eyes were hard and cold. 'Beautiful day, huh? And how can I help you?'

Nick showed his credentials and introduced himself and Catherine.

As at Sundown, the guard asked to see further credentials and Nick looked privately toward Catherine, crossing his eyes, and she laughed as they both handed over their wallet IDs.

'Everything in order,' the guard said. 'Sorry to be a stickler-we have some very important people out here at TPC, club members and residents. Where is it you need to go?'

Nick gave him the Dayton address.

'Maybe I should call ahead for you,' the guard said.

Brass seemed to appear from nowhere, standing next to the Tahoe and holding forward his own ID wallet. The guard took an involuntary step backward.

Brass said, 'Don't call ahead.'

'Well, uh…Captain Brass? I'm afraid that's our policy.'

'It's not ours.'

Glancing in the door rearview mirror, Catherine saw Brass's Taurus parked in the drive behind them.

The guard said, 'Sir, we're not just a country club. We're a gated community, and our residents-'

'Call ahead, I come back and arrest you for obstruction. Is that policy clear enough?'

Nodding numbly, the guard retreated to his shack and his air conditioning, and raised the gate so they could enter the TPC at the Canyons.

Everything here shouted affluence-the houses, the lawns, the cars, even the mailboxes, everything bigger, nicer, costlier, showier. They passed the clubhouse, where the golf carts stickered for about as much as Catherine's car. Nick pulled over, allowed Brass to pass them, and they followed the detective's Taurus through the compound until they ended up on Proud Eagle Lane.

The expression 'a man's home is his castle' is usually an exaggeration, but in Jerome Dayton's case, those words were the literal truth: The sprawling two-story stucco was twice as large as Catherine had seen in any other housing development in Vegas, a town that had more than its share of wealth and celebrity. Painted a light coral, the huge residence stood out among the other, slightly smaller mansions, which were uniformly a sand color.

With Brass in the lead, the trio approached the door. The detective had been working hard for days now to keep the anger and frustration in check, to view these CASt killings as homicides and not personal affronts. But now he felt angry, frustrated, with himself, as if it had been his responsibility to know that Jerry Dayton had been released from Sundown.

But such facilities were not required to inform law enforcement about the risks they were sending out into the world. And the Dayton family had somehow kept their son in check-to say Jerome Dayton had kept a low profile over these past years was a supreme understatement. Perhaps he'd been locked away in an upper room of this castle, like the Man in the Iron Mask, a medicated if pampered prisoner in his own home.

Only what had happened, lately? After both his jailers-that is, his parents-had shuffled off the ol' mortal coil?

The lunatic would be in charge of the asylum.

Of course, it might be a coincidence that Dayton had been on a weekend pass when Vincent Drake was murdered, but Brass-like Grissom-held no truck with coincidence.

Coincidence was God's way of telling a detective that he had screwed up, probably missing something, something important. That, as much as anything, was why Captain James Brass was so royally pissed off when he marched up the sloping, winding sidewalk to the massive double doors of the Dayton home.

Ignoring the bell, the detective pounded on the oak door with his fist. When no one answered immediately, he pounded again. He could feel Nick and Catherine behind him and he could also feel their mounting tension.

Were they wondering if he was losing it?

Well, maybe he was-and god damn it, maybe he had a right. Eight men were dead over the last eleven years, and what had Brass ever managed to do about it? It had been his job, his and Vince Champlain's, to catch CASt nearly a decade ago, and they had booted it big time.

Now the sick evil son of a bitch was running wild again; only, finally, Brass might be on the literal doorstep of the solution….

He was preparing to pound a third time when the door on his left suddenly opened, and framed there, leaning on the jamb, stood a tall, thin, dark-haired, hawkish-faced man with piercing green eyes, attired in a blue button- down shirt and black jeans.

Jerome Dayton.

Despite the years, little about Dayton had changed-the narrow face remained largely unlined, the hair untouched by gray; the only addition that Brass caught was an earring added to Dayton's left lobe, a 'D' crafted out of small diamonds.

His eyes narrowing, upper lip curling in contempt, Dayton said, 'Brass,' the single word an epithet.

'Been a while, Jerry,' Brass said, coolly, even as something burned in his stomach.

'How did you people get past the gate?' Dayton's voice was as glacial as the glare he tossed at Catherine and Nick, then fixed upon Brass.

'You know, Jerry,' Brass said, 'I'm flattered you remember me. Your lawyer liked to keep us apart, as I recall.'

'Who are your flunkies?'

'These are crime scene analysts from the Crime Lab-Catherine Willows and Nick Stokes. I've been telling them all about you. We're anxious to sit and talk about…old times. And new.'

Dayton said, 'Not without my lawyer sitting in,' and started to close the door in the detective's face.

Brass forced himself into the doorway, blocking the young man's attempt.

Dayton's eyes turned to slits; his sneer of a smile formed slowly but effectively as he took a long, deep breath. Then he exhaled and said, 'And my lawyer, I think, is just who I should to talk to-in the case of a harassment suit.'

Brass put on his patented rumpled smile. 'Come on now, Jerry-you must see the papers, the TV. Certainly you know why we're here. You're going to have to talk to us at some point. We're just eliminating the old names from our list, and you can get that out of the way and-'

'Old suspects, you mean.' The hawkish, sneering face looked at each of them, pausing for a derisive chuckle, again landing on Brass. 'You think I don't know what you want? You're here about Cee Ay Ess Tee. Wasn't ruining my life once enough for you?'

Giving the man a tight smile, Brass said, 'That earring's sure handsome, Jerry. Never knew you to go in for the bling bling.'

Dayton's smile widened, lips parting to reveal perfect white wolfish teeth. 'It was my mother's-a ring I had made into this. Normally I'm not ostentatious…you know that, Captain. But I loved my mother.'

'How about your father?'

Dayton frowned. 'This conversation is over.'

Catherine eased forward a little. 'Mr. Dayton, the crimes you were suspected of aren't what we're investigating. We're not after the real CASt-many believe him dead, or at least living far away from Las Vegas.'

'Really,' Dayton said, vaguely interested.

'We're after this new killer-this copycat.'

Nick said, 'Yeah-kind of the new, improved CASt?'

'But obviously,' Catherine said, 'we have to revisit and review the old files. It's really quite routine.'

Brass realized what Catherine and Nick were up to: If Dayton was the real CASt, they'd been needling him pretty good….

Dayton was studying Catherine, stroking his chin with his right hand. A swollen, ugly purple bruise painted