Binding Ties

and so on, neatly between bookends, and a box of paper. The atmosphere was vaguely impersonal, even institutional, as if Dayton had become so used to Sundown, he'd brought that feel home with him.

Jalisco leaned back out the closet and said, 'Clear.'

The uniformed officer pushed the button on his walkie and reported in. 'Clear upstairs.'

Warrick Brown and Carrack circled like dancers with guns around the huge living room with its cathedral ceiling. Warrick spotted a formal dining room off to the right; at left, Carrack checked a fireplace that-instead of having a solid closed back-opened onto a bedroom. Moving to his right, around one end of a white leather couch, Warrick satisfied himself that the living room was empty.

He couldn't remember the last time he had been in such a monochromatic chamber: carpeting, furniture, walls, ceiling, everything was white, with the sole exception of the black face of the wall-hanging plasma screen and the blacks with red LEDs of shelved (and elaborate) stereo equipment.

The blankness of these surroundings chilled Warrick, and he did not chill easily. Could the Dayton family have lived this way? Or-as his instinct told him-had Jerome remodeled after their deaths, to make this castle his own?

That was when Warrick noticed something that wasn't there: family pictures. Nowhere in the entry room or this living room, typical places for framed family photos, either on a wall or gathered on a table, was there any sign of the father and mother who had raised this only child.

For all the money in this room, the leather, the expensive video/stereo gear, Warrick had seen hotel suites with more personality.

Either Jerome Dayton had no personality, or he kept it well concealed…even at home.

'Clear,' Carrack reported.

The pair moved on.

Brass barreled down the stairs, Grissom struggling to keep up.

This was a finished basement, the stairs emptying into a small space with doors on the right and left. Brass turned the knob of the door on the left and Grissom waited as the detective entered, finding himself in a family room with thick brown carpeting and brown sectional furniture under a row of windows that looked out over the backyard.

A 32-inch TV on a pedestal sat against the wall on the right; the wall to the left of the door was filled with paperback-packed bookcases, while the far left wall held another door.

Hell, Brass thought, this place has more rooms than some hotels on the Strip….

And each one had to be cleared.

* * *

Sara opened the door to the garage and hit the light switch with the heel of her latexed palm-a fingerprint- preserving habit of hers.

Two cars were parked within: a new late-model white Lexus; and an older blue Dodge so filthy it was a wonder no prankish finger had written WASH ME in the grime. She and Nick moved carefully through, looking behind boxes and under a tool bench, making sure no one was hiding.

Finally Nick knelt to peer under the Dodge.

'Oil leak, all right,' he said.

He rose and opened the passenger door, called back, 'Keys in dash,' then flicked the glove compartment open. He pulled out the registration and read aloud: 'Mark Brower.'

Sara pushed the talk button on her radio. 'Garage clear. We have Brower's car, a very dirty Dodge.'

Brass nodded when he heard Sara's voice come over the radio.

He checked over his shoulder, to see if Grissom had followed him into the family room, which he had; then Brass moved to the door at the back, grabbed a breath, hefted his pistol, and turned the knob.

Warrick and Carrack had gone down the hall, passing the door to the garage, taking a right into the bedroom that had been visible through the shared fireplace.

No one was in here, at least on first look.

This was obviously the master bedroom, and the stark white decorating theme persisted with a dresser, bureau, and four-poster bed.

Carrack checked the walk-in closet while Warrick entered another huge bathroom. Didn't take him long to find a pink-tinged wash cloth in the shower stall. Even without lab results, the CSI knew he was looking at a blood stain.

'Warrick!' Carrack called from the walk-in closet.

At the patrolman's side, Warrick followed Carrack's pointing finger to a pile of clothes next to the hamper: jeans with several dark spots on the legs and a blue T-shirt with a dark splotch on the front, which also appeared to be blood.

Into his walkie, Carrack said, 'Bedroom clear.'

Following up, Warrick said into his radio, 'Gris-we have blood-stained clothing up here. Copy that?'

'Copy,' came Grissom's voice.

In the basement, following Warrick's news of blood-stained clothing, Brass switched off his walkie- talkie.

Much as he liked keeping the flow of information alive between teams, he did not want the cross-talk giving away his and Grissom's position.

Beyond the family room, he found himself in a bedroom.

But not just a bedroom, and not another room in this largely featureless house, painting itself an innocent white.

'Gil,' Brass said. 'You're gonna love this….'

The 'bedroom' was more like a dungeon; oh, there was indeed a bed in it, a simple black bed with black silk sheets, centered in the middle of the room; but there were no windows in here, and as both men got out their flashlights and flicked them on, the darkness of the room was only heightened by illumination.

The walls were painted a flat black; the carpet was black indoor-outdoor. Shackles hung from the ceiling at the four corners of the bed, and an amazing array of rough-trade instruments hung on the wall to the left, the tools of a sadist's workshop. Though the blackness made them difficult to discern, knobs gave away doors at left and right on the wall opposite.

Brass felt Grissom move up beside him.

'Door number one,' Brass whispered, 'or door number two?'

'Lady or the tiger?' the CSI supervisor replied with a terrible little smile.

But Brass never had to choose.

The door at left opened and a blood-drenched Jerry Dayton stepped into the room. Nude except for a flimsy pair of jockeys, the young man froze when he saw the pistols leveled at him, then raised his left hand against the glare of the flashlights.

His right hand remained behind his slightly turned body.

'Show me your hands, Jerry,' Brass said tightly.

'Lower the light,' Dayton countered. 'I can't see a damn thing!'

Neither flashlight moved.

'Show me your goddamn hands,' Brass said, taking a half-step toward his suspect.

The hand came up, but as it did, Dayton flung something…

…something warm and mushy that struck Brass in the cheek, the detective firing, the sound like a thunderclap in the enclosed space, Dayton ducking to his left, the object he'd tossed flopping to the floor.

Grissom's beam found what had hit his friend in the face, putting a small spotlight on a severed human forefinger that seemed to point back at the CSI; its ragged bloody end leeched red.

At the same time, Brass's beam caught Dayton darting through the door on the right, leaving it open.

Brass yelled, 'Freeze!'

But the suspect was gone.

'Dayton is yours,' Grissom said, and slipped past him to go in the lefthand door.

Alone now, Brass shone the flashlight through the ajar door at right, then went after the suspect.