The newspaper guys lapsed into silence.
'I can assure you,' Brass said, 'we're going to turn over every rock we can.'
Paquette and Bell both flashed glares his way.
'Sorry…I didn't mean it to sound quite like that…. I just mean that we're going to do everything we can to catch this guy, and quick. If it is CASt, we all know what he's capable of. If he's decided to repeat his cycle, we could be looking at four more victims….'
'Jesus,' Brower said.
'If it's a newcomer with a similar M.O…' Brass let that hang in the air for a few seconds, before he added, 'We don't wanna go there till we have to…but either way, we've got to catch this guy, and fast. Look, I know it's a big story, but we need, at the outset anyway, to control it.'
Bell glanced at his two cohorts, who both gave him slight nods, the three of them somehow communicating silently.
Then the reporter said, 'Whatever you need, Jim, you let us know. We'll help any way we can.'
'Thanks.'
'But,' Paquette added, shaking a forefinger, 'we get that twenty-four-hour lead, remember.'
Brass nodded and Grissom said, 'That much we can do.'
The Elvis waiter was singing 'Jailhouse Rock' when Brass and Grissom headed out.
* * *
Vince Champlain and his second wife occupied an independent living apartment at the Sunny Day Continuing Care Facility in Henderson.
A guard stopped Brass and Grissom at the gate and checked their credentials and wrote their names on his clipboard. Brass and Grissom were familiar with Sunny Day since Catherine and Warrick had worked a case recently concerning murdered patients in the continuous care wing.
Not far from Lake Mead Drive, Sunny Day offered independent living apartments in a building at the left end, and various levels of escalating care in a high-rise at the right end. For the geriatric set, Sunny Day was the living end, or the end of living, depending on which building you occupied.
Brass turned the Taurus to the left and found a parking place not far from the entrance. The Champlains were on the third floor, and-Brass having called ahead-the visit was expected. In fact, when Grissom and Brass exited the elevator and started down the hall, a petite blonde stuck her head out from a door and waved eagerly.
'Jimmy!' she practically squealed. Her expression was joyous.
Grissom gave Brass a sideways look and pointed at him. 'Jimmy? You're…Jimmy?'
'Keep that to yourself.'
'That's asking a lot.'
'Don't make me shoot you.'
Grissom was smiling at Brass, who was smiling at the tiny woman who stood just outside her doorway with outstretched arms.
'Margie,' Brass said, and allowed himself to be folded in a surprisingly massive hug coming from such a diminutive woman.
As slender as she was short, Margie Champlain had hardly aged since Brass had last seen her; the blonde hair had always been dyed, and she'd had at least one facelift back then-and at least another since.
Brass had first met Margie not long before her husband had retired. A bartender in a small dive off Fremont Street, Margie had been a fireball back in those days, one too powerful for Vince Champlain to resist. The affair had led to the break up of Vince's marriage, but Vince and his first wife, Sheila, were both better off today. Vince's affair with Margie had blossomed into true love and Sheila was now happily married to a retired Golden Nugget casino manager. Brass knew the two couples even went out to dinner together occasionally.
'How could you let yourself be such a stranger, Jimmy?' Margie asked, backing away to look him in the face but still hanging on and in no hurry to let go.
'It's working the damn nightshift,' Brass said. 'I got no social life. You were lucky you hooked up with Vince so close to retirement.'
'Yeah, I missed all the
Brass glanced at Grissom, who seemed to be trying to decide whether to be confused or embarrassed.
'I like to think of him as my little helper,' Brass said dryly. 'This is Gil Grissom-our crime lab's answer to Sherlock Holmes.'
Grissom frowned and said, 'I didn't know Sherlock Holmes was a question.'
Margie laughed once, then said to Brass, 'Is he kidding?'
'No one knows,' Brass said.
Margie stuck her hand out and Grissom took and shook it.
'Aren't you the cutie pie,' she cooed to Grissom, maintaining her grip.
The CSI supervisor smiled nervously and looked down at his hand like a trapped animal wondering if he'd have to chew off his paw before he could escape.
'Did Vince get back yet?' Brass asked.
'Afraid not,' Margie said, finally releasing the CSI's hand. 'No, like I said on the phone, he's been gone since early this morning.'
'But he will be back soon?'
'Should be any minute,' she said. 'You kids come on in and wait. I'm making decaf.'
Margie had said on the phone that Vince ought to be back by the time Brass and Grissom arrived; but now Brass-knowing how abstract time could be to older, retired people, and how lonely for company they could be- wondered if he and Grissom should enter that apartment and risk wasting valuable time, the early hours in any murder case being the most vital.
Knowing Grissom was probably thinking something similar, Brass looked at the CSI, who shrugged in an it's- your-call manner.
Before Brass was forced into making an executive decision, a tall, athletic, silver-haired man strode into view up the hallway.
The well-tanned Vince Champlain wore light gray sweat pants, a dark gray-and-black striped Polo shirt, and tennies. He moved toward them with no sign of weakness or age in his gait.
His wide silver-mustached mouth broke into a smile, his teeth a little too white, too straight to be nature's work.
Margie shushed him loudly and said, 'Vince, please…the neighbors.' Then she whispered to Brass and Grissom, 'We have goddamn prudes on either side of us, and then here's Vince, with that fuggin' cop's mouth of his!'
Grissom's eyes were wide and Brass had to smile; Margie had worked as a barmaid for a long, long time….
Champlain was patting Brass on the shoulder, then nodded and grinned at Grissom and said, 'Been seeing your name in the papers, your shining face on the tube, Gilbert. Making a mark, making a mark.'
Grissom shrugged a shoulder and gave up a shy smile.
'Let's go inside,' Champlain said, waving them toward the open door, 'where I can say 'son of a bitch' without Margie having heart failure.'
Margie went in first, Champlain followed, and Brass looked at Grissom and said, 'After you, Gilbert…'
'No, no-you first…Jimmy.'
Brass smiled and Grissom chuckled, and the homicide captain wondered if the CSI shared his relief at even being able to smile, considering the circumstances of this day.
Champlain closed the door after them, and Brass and Grissom took in the living room, which wasn't terribly large, but had a nice homey feel to it, particularly considering the Champlains were essentially in the least-assisted wing of a nursing home.
A big-screen TV dominated one corner while a well-worn lounge chair angled into another corner and a floral sofa took up the wall near the door. Another chair sat at an angle to the sofa, and the tiny, magazine-covered island
