Binding Ties

Brass and Grissom both shook hands with Paquette and Brower also. Grissom moved around to Brass's side of the booth, while Bell and Paquette sat on the opposite side, Brower pulling up a chair from a nearby table.

Solidly muscular-hardly the norm for the sedentary newspaper breed-Brower wore his dark brown hair short; his dark eyes and the thought-carved groove between his thick brows conveyed seriousness, and a narrow, nearly lipless mouth gave him a vaguely feral look, especially when he smiled. He'd been with Bell for quite a while now, and had earned from Brass the same trust as his boss.

Still, Brower remained, in Brass's mind, an uninvited guest, which was the first topic of conversation….

Brass said, 'Don't take this personally, Mark,' he said, then turned to Bell and asked, 'but what's he doing here?'

The reporter's smile faded. 'Well, hell, Jim. He…he's my assistant. Mark goes where I go, you know that.'

'Did you think this was a social call?'

Bell glanced at both Paquette and Brower. 'Isn't it?'

Brass studied the crime writer for a long moment. 'Your scanner broken?'

'No, why?'

'You didn't hear the 420 in North Las Vegas this morning?'

The newspapermen would all know the radio code for homicide.

Bell shrugged. 'Yeah, so? There was the original radio call, then nothing. I figured there'd be more later, if it was anything worth covering. Is that what you got for me?'

'It's not like you to miss a residential murder call, Perry…' Brass tried to keep his voice neutral, even nonchalant. 'So where were you off to, this morning?'

The reporter seemed not to notice that he was being questioned. 'In the office, mostly.'

'All morning?'

For the first time, Bell seemed to understand he was being interrogated.

Alarm was morphing into anger, and he was about to speak when their Teen Idol waiter came over and put a cup of coffee in front of Bell and the others, then freshened Brass's and Grissom's.

'Any food for you guys?' the waiter asked.

'No,' Brass said, waving the waiter away.

Steam rose off the coffee-but the reporter was steaming, too.

'What in the hell kind of crap is this, Brass?' Bell caught himself-he'd almost been shouting-and looked around, but none of the other diners seemed to notice over the din of the restaurant and the singing staff. 'I mean, really, Jim…am I some kind of suspect in something? What the hell kind of murder went down this morning, anyway?'

Brass said nothing.

Paquette leaned forward, his features intense. 'Look, Captain Brass, if you're accusing one of my employees of something, you do it through proper channels, not call us out to a restaurant on some flimsy damn-'

Eyes taut, Grissom said, 'There's nothing flimsy about murder. Captain Brass is making this informal, as a courtesy to you people.'

Brass held up a hand and said, 'No, Gil-Perry and Dave have a point.'

The editor and columnist exhaled air, like twin punctured tires, and settled into a placated limbo, waiting for Brass to continue. From the sidelines Brower watched quietly but intently.

The detective gathered himself, took a long pull on his coffee and then studied Bell, considering exactly how much he wanted to tell the reporter.

Finally, he said, 'I'm sorry, Perry…Dave. We caught one that's put me on edge, and if I've been out of line with you guys…I do value our relationship…please blame it on tension.'

The two journalists shrugged, in accidental rhythm with a waiter doing Elvis singing, 'All Shook Up.'

'But,' Brass said, 'when this case goes public, there's going to be hell to pay.'

Reaching into his inside pocket for a pen and pad, his anger all but forgotten, Bell said, 'Well, then, let's get started….'

Brass held up his hands, as if being robbed. 'That's just it-I don't want it to go public, just yet.'

The reporter froze for a moment, then, slowly, his hand came out of his coat-empty. 'Well, Jim, why are we here, then, if we can't talk about it?'

For the first time in a long time, Brass wished he hadn't quit smoking. 'I needed to talk to you, off the record.'

'Captain Brass,' Paquette said irritably, 'we're all for cooperation with the authorities, but just like you have a job to do, so do we. We have a responsibility to the public.'

'You have a responsibility to me,' Brass said, 'that overrides that, in this instance.'

The editor shook his head. 'You don't have that kind of pull.'

'I don't?' Brass asked. 'My cooperation on a certain case gave you two a bestselling book. Which you both made careers out of.'

'What,' Bell said, 'you're calling in that marker?'

'Yes,' Brass said.

After a moment's consideration, Paquette asked, 'If the story's that big…and you need our help, including putting the public's right-to-know on hold…we'll want something in return. Something more than the old news of what you did for us a long time ago.'

Brass and Grissom both just looked at him.

'When the time comes,' Paquette said, his hands flat on the edge of the table, 'we want an exclusive.'

Brass started to say something, his temper rising, but Grissom put a hand on his arm.

'Not possible,' Grissom said. 'Not even legal.'

Everyone at the table knew that the two county employees could never consent to an exclusive on a big case; but by asking for the whole pie, Paquette clearly expected to come away with the biggest slice.

Brass relented a little. 'Twenty-four-hour lead.'

Paquette considered that, then nodded.

'What have you got?' Bell asked, sitting forward, the hunger in his voice obvious. Other than an expose on crime in the rap world, when Tupac Shakur got shot, Bell hadn't had a story go national since the CASt book; and the columnist could easily see, from Brass's behavior, that this was something very big….

'You gotta promise, Perry,' Brass said. 'Not even a hint until I give you the okay. That means all three of you. You can cover the story in a modest way, just straightforward news…but the key aspect, we have to downplay, even sit on.'

Bell studied him, questions all over his face, even though the reporter never uttered a word, simply nodded his agreement.

'Cross me,' Brass said, with a smile that wasn't friendly, 'and the cooperation you've known in the past…will be past.'

The reporter snapped, 'Hey, Jim, when was the last time any of us screwed you over?'

Brass wiped a hand across his forehead. Christ, he'd been on the job forever and here he was sweating like a rookie. He'd been needlessly antagonizing these people, who had always been allies.

'You're right,' Brass said. 'You've always been straight-up. So let me ask a question-how long ago was it? The CASt case.'

The reporter, apparently thinking this was another reference to Brass helping him and Paquette out on their book, raised a single eyebrow, then shrugged. 'I don't know, ten, eleven years?'

Bell looked to Paquette for confirmation.

The editor nodded. 'Eleven. When it started.'

'Qualifies as ancient history in this town,' Bell said. 'Is that a point of reference, or…what?'

Three waitresses were singing, 'My Boyfriend's Back (and You're Gonna Be in Trouble).'

Brass sipped his coffee, eyes travelling from Bell to Paquette and making the return trip. 'We always wondered why he stopped-had he died in an automobile accident? Was he committed somewhere? Did he move, and pick up somewhere else?'

Bell said, 'You know the latter isn't true-even now, I keep an eye on the national scene, looking for that M.O.