M aintaining a low profile in this high-rent neighborhood would have been damn-near impossible; so Jim Brass didn’t even try. In the early morning sunshine, dew still dappling, the cramped court looked like the Circus Circus parking lot: the two Tahoes and Brass’s Taurus were parked in front of the Hyde residence, and two Henderson PD black-and-whites were pulled into the driveway across the street (Brass had not been about to repeat his faux pas with the local police, not only alerting them but calling them in).

Neighbors—some in bathrobes, others fully dressed—came out to gawk as the CSI group, led by Grissom and Brass, stepped from their vehicles, a little army removing their sunglasses and snapping on latex gloves. For July, the morning was surprisingly cool, and Warrick and Nick wore dark windbreakers labelled FORENSICS—this was in part psychological, a way to inform the onlookers that this was serious business, and they should keep back and stay away. As the team approached the house, each CSI carried his or her own equipment, each already handed a specific assignment for the scene by Supervisor Grissom.

Warrick would track down the shoes, Nick dust for prints, and Sara handle the camera work. Catherine would join Grissom as the designated explorers, their job to search out the more obscure places, seeking the more elusive clues. Brass—the only one not in latex gloves—would take care of Hyde.

As they marched up the sidewalk to the front door, an aura of anxiety burbled beneath the professionalism.

“Think he might start something?” Nick asked, obviously remembering the close call at the Kostichek house.

At Nick’s side, Warrick shook his head, perhaps too casually. “Why should he? Sucker thinks he’s Superman. We ain’t laid a glove on him yet.”

Brass heard this exchange, and basically agreed with Warrick—but just the same, he approached the door cautiously. He held the warrant in his left hand, his jacket open so that he could easily reach the holstered pistol on his hip. Behind him, Grissom motioned his crew—their hands filled with field kits and other equipment, looking like unwanted relatives showing up for a long stay—away from the door, corralling them in front of the two-car garage.

With a glance over his shoulder, Brass ascertained the CSIs were out of the line of fire; then he slowly moved forward. The front door—recessed between the living room on the left and the garage on the right—reminded the detective of the room doors at the Beachcomber, providing a funny little resonance, and a problem: if something went wrong, only Grissom—barely visible, peering around the corner like a curious child—would see what happened.

Nick’s words of apprehension playing like a tape loop in his brain—“Think he might try something?”—Brass, within the alcove-like recession, stepped to the right of the door, took a deep breath, let it out…and knocked, hard and insistently.

Nothing.

He waited…

…he pressed the doorbell…

…and still nothing.

Glancing back at Grissom—who gave him a questioning look—Brass shrugged, turned back, and knocked once more.

Still no response.

Grissom moved carefully forward to join the homicide cop, the rest of the crew trailing behind.

“I don’t think our boy’s home,” Brass said.

Grissom reached out and, with a gentle latex touch, turned the knob.

The door swung slowly open, in creaking invitation, Brass and Grissom both signaling for the group to get out of the potential line of fire.

“Open?” Brass said to Grissom. “He left it open?”

“Cat and mouse,” Grissom said. “That’s our man’s favorite game…. ”

They listened, Brass straining to hear the slightest sound, the faintest hint of life—Grissom was doing the same.

Long moments later, they traded eyebrow shrugs, signifying neither had heard anything, except the sounds of a suburban home—refrigerator whir, air-conditioning rush, ticking clocks. Drawing his pistol, Brass moved forward into the foyer of the modern, spare, open house—lots of bare wood and stucco plaster and stonework.

Grissom said to Warrick, “Tell those uniformed officers to watch our back. Then join us inside.”

“On it,” Warrick said, and trotted toward Henderson’s finest.

Then Grissom and the other CSIs joined Brass, inside.

A wide staircase to a second-floor landing loomed before them; hallways parallel to the stairway were on its either side, leading to the back of the house—kitchen and family room, maybe. At right was the door to the attached garage, and at left a doorless doorway opened onto the living room.

The loudest thing in the quiet residence was Brass’s own slow breathing, and the shoes of the team screaking on the hardwood floor.

In a loud voice—startling a couple of the CSIs—Brass called out, “Barry Hyde—this is Captain James Brass, Las Vegas PD! We have a search warrant for your home and its contents!…Sir, if you are here, please make yourself known to us, now!”

The words rang a bit, caught by the stairwell, but then…

“Simon and Garfunkle,” Sara said.

Brass looked at her.

“Sounds of silence,” the CSI replied, with a shrug.

Brass eased forward and turned left into the living room, his pistol leveled—a big, open, cold room with a picture window, a central metal fireplace, and spare Southwestern touches, including a Georgia O’Keefe cow-skull print over a rust-color two-seater sofa.

“Clear!” Brass called, when he came back into the foyer, Warrick had already joined Nick, Sara, Catherine and Grissom, who were fanning out—firearms in hand, an unusual procedure for these crime scene investigators, but the precaution was vital.

Opening the door to the attached garage, Nick flipped the light switch and went in, pistol at the ready. After a quick look around, he yelled, “Clear.”

They went from room to room on the first floor—Brass, Nick, and Warrick—checking each one. Grissom and Catherine—weapons in their latexed hands—stood at the bottom of the open stairway, to make sure Hyde didn’t surprise them from above.

When Brass, Nick and Warrick returned to the foyer, they all shook their heads—nobody downstairs. Brass then led the way up the stairs, with the same combo of guns and caution, and they inspected the second floor the same way.

“It’s all clear,” Brass said, returning to the top of the stairs, holstering his handgun. “Barry Hyde has left the building.”

“Okay,” Grissom said, obviously pleased to be putting the gun away, “let’s get to work. You all know what to do.”

Sara unpacked her camera, Nick his fingerprint kit and they went to work as a team. Catherine and Warrick disappeared into other parts of the house.

Adrenaline still pumped through Brass as he came down the stairs. “Couldn’t the son of a bitch have done us the courtesy of just opening the door and getting indignant about his rights and his goddamn privacy?”

“You’re just longing again,” Grissom said, “for those days when you could shoot a perp and then say ‘freeze.’ ”

“That approach has its merits.”

“So is he not home…or is he gone?”

“I said he might be a flight risk.”

Grissom nodded, starting up the steps. “I’ll check his clothes, his toiletries—see if there are any suitcases in the house.”

Brass moved into the living room, where Sara was snapping photos that would comprise a three-hundred-sixty-degree view of the room, working from that central fireplace. As she moved on to another room, Brass poked around. The front wall consisted of one huge mullioned window looking out onto the street, and that lone sapling in the front yard.

A television the size of a compact car filled most of the west wall to Brass’s left. A set of shelves next to the TV was filled with stereo equipment, several VCRs, a DVD player, and a couple of electronic components Brass didn’t even recognize. On shelves over the television sat a collection of DVD movies, most of which Brass had never heard of. I have to get out more, he thought.

Opposite the entertainment center sat a huge green leather couch and a matching recliner squatted along the shorter southern wall. Next to the recliner and at the far end of the couch were oak end tables supporting lighter-green modernistic table lamps with soft white shades. A matching oak coffee table, low-slung in front of the couch, displayed a scattering of magazines with subscription stickers to BARRY HYDE and a few stacks of opened mail and loose papers.

Grissom came in, saying, “No clothes seem to be missing, but it’s hard to say. Closet with suitcases seems undisturbed, and all the normal toiletries—toothbrush and paste, aftershave, deodorant—seem to be at home.”

“So maybe he’s just out for breakfast. Or putting bullets in somebody else’s brain.”

“You find anything yet?”

Brass pointed at the line of movie cases on top of the television. “I found out I haven’t seen a movie since John Wayne died.”

Without sarcasm, Grissom asked, “And this is pertinent how?”

The detective shook his head. This was one of the reasons he liked Grissom: the scientist had little use for the outside world, either. His universe consisted of his calling and the people he worked with; beyond that, not much seemed to get Grissom’s attention.

“Nothing pertinent about it,” Brass said. “Just a social observation.”

Kneeling, Grissom started going through the material on the coffee table. Brass plopped down on the couch, watching as the criminalist leafed through Hyde’s magazines. Several were vacation guides, one was a Hustler, and the last one a copy of Forbes.

“Varied reading list,” Grissom said.

“Travel, sex, money,” Brass said. “American dream.”

Loose papers, in with the mail, included various reports from the video store, a folded copy of a recent Sun, and an A-to-Z memo pad—an address in black ballpoint scrawled on the top sheet.

Holding up the pad, Grissom asked, “Familiar address?”

“Marge Kostichek?”

“That’s right. Why do you think Barry Hyde has Marge Kostichek’s address in his home? In the same stack including a newspaper with an account of the discovery of a certain mummified body?”

“I could maybe come up with a reason.”

“But if he’s expecting us—if he knows he’s on the spot—why leave this lying around?”

Brass considered that. “More cat and mouse?”

Grissom’s eyes tightened. “Maybe he hasn’t been home since we talked to him. Get Sara, would you, Jim? I want a picture of this.”

Outside a horn blared, and both men looked through the picture window to see a huge semi-truck, out in the suburban street, apparently somewhat blocked by the two curbed SUVs. The driver of the van blew the horn again, and the Henderson cops—who were parked in the driveway of the home across the street—were approaching.

Sara’s voice came from the kitchen. “What’s going on out there?”

Brass and Grissom looked at the moving van, then at each other. From Grissom’s expression, Brass found it a safe bet that the criminalist had a similar sick sinking feeling in his stomach….

“Let’s go outside and talk,” Brass said, rising from the sofa, his voice lighter than his thoughts.

Grissom got up, too, saying, “You guys keep working.”

The CSIs did, but in strained silence; something in Grissom’s voice had been troubling….

Following Grissom outside, Brass felt a headache, like a gripping hand, taking hold of him. Every time they got a goddamn break in this case, it evaporated before they could play it out! And he knew, damnit, he just knew, it was happening again….

The coveralled driver—heavyset, about twenty-five, with sweaty dark hair matted to his forehead and a scruffy brown mustache and goatee—had already climbed down out of his cab to talk to the Henderson uniformed men. The latter moved aside as Brass and Grissom came quickly up, meeting the driver in the street, in front of the van. Another guy—a mover—was still seated up in the cab; he had the bored look of the worker at the start of a thankless day.

Brass flashed his badge. “What are you guys doing here?”

Not particularly impressed by the badge, the mover said, “What do you think? We’re here to move furniture.”

“What furniture?”

He pointed to the Hyde residence. “That furniture.”

“There must be a mistake,” Brass said.

Fishing a sheet of paper from his pocket, the mover said, “Fifty-three Fresh Pond Court.”

Brass and Grissom traded a look.

“Show me,” Brass said.

Rolling his eyes, the mover handed the sheet of paper over to Brass.

“This seems to be in order,” Brass said, reading it, giving Grissom a quick look, then handing the paper back.

Grissom asked, “How were you supposed to get in? Was someone supposed to meet you here?”

The mover shrugged. “Guy on the phone said the police would be here to let us in…and here you are.”

“When did this work order come through?”

“Just now—I mean, they called the twenty-four-hour hotline. It was a rush job. They paid extra—through the nose, better believe it.”

“Son of a bitch,” Grissom said, and sprinted toward the nearest Tahoe.

Brass yelled at the mover, “Get that truck out of here—now!”

“But…”

“There’s a murder investigation going on. You touch that furniture, you’re in violation of a warrant.”

“Maybe I oughta see—”

“Get the hell out of here!” Brass blurted, and the mover jumped. Brass planted himself and glared at the guy and, finally, the man climbed back into the truck and ground the gears into reverse. As the moving van backed slowly up the court, Grissom was cranking the Tahoe around; then he pulled up next to Brass.

“You coming?” Grissom asked. He seemed calm, but Brass noted a certain uncharacteristic wildness in the CSI’s eyes.

Brass jumped into the passenger seat and the SUV flew out of the court, going up on a lawn to get around the semi. As they hurtled down the adjacent Henderson street, Brass—snapping his seatbelt in place—asked, “You want me to drive?”

“No.”

“Want me to hit the siren?”

“No.”

Accelerating, Grissom jerked the wheel left to miss a Dodge Intrepid. Brass closed his eyes.

As the criminalist ran a red light, Brass flipped on the flashing blue light—still no siren, though. Right now Grissom was jamming on the brakes, to keep from running them into the back end of a bus.

Brass was glad it was such a short hop to A-to-Z Video.

The SUV squealed into the lot and slid to a stop in front of the video store. Grissom was out and running to the door before Brass even got out of his seatbelt. Working to catch up, the detective pulled even just as Grissom pushed through the door and said, “Where’s Barry Hyde?”

The cashier said, “Mr. Hyde isn’t here right now.”

Grissom cut through the store, down the middle aisle, Brass hot on his heels.

Pushing open the back-room door, Grissom demanded, “Where is he?”

Patrick, the hapless assistant manager, merely looked up, eyes wide with fear, and he burned his fingers on his latest joint. With a yelp of pain, the kid jumped out of his chair and backed into a corner.

“Barry Hyde,” Grissom said. “Where is he?”

“Not…not here. I told you guys before, he won’t be back until Monday!”

Grissom pushed through a connecting door into the back room. Brass tagged after. Shelves of videos, stored displays, empty shipping boxes, and extra shelving, but no Barry Hyde. The criminalist and the cop went back through the office, where the assistant manager stood in trembling terror, the scent of weed heavy.

“Sometime soon I’ll be back,” Brass said, “and if there’s any dope on these premises, your ass’ll be grass.”

Patrick nodded, and Brass went after Grissom, who had already moved out into the store.

As Grissom headed toward the cashier’s island, and Brass labored to catch up, a tall blond man in a well-tailored navy blue suit stepped around an endcap, and held out a video box.

The smiling cobra—Culpepper.

“You like Harrison Ford movies, Grissom?” the FBI agent asked casually, his voice pleasant, his smile smug.

“Why am I not surprised to see you here,” Grissom said, with contempt.

“This is a modern classic, Gil,” Culpepper said. “You really should try it—cheap rental, older title, you know.”

And Culpepper held out the video: Witness.

Brass frowned, not getting it.

“I haven’t seen it,” Grissom said. “Is it about a freelance assassin in the Federal Witness Protection Program?”

Oh shit, Brass thought, as it all clicked.

“No,” Culpepper said. “But that would make a good movie, too—don’t you think?”

Grissom’s voice was detached and calm, but the detective noted that the criminalist’s hands were balled into fists, the knuckles white. “You weren’t looking for your Deuce, Culpepper—you already had him…you’ve had him for almost five years. You were just hanging around criminalistics, to see what we knew, learn what we found, so you could keep one step ahead.”

Leaning against the COMEDY shelf, a self-satisfied grin tugging at a corner of his cheek, Culpepper said, “I really can’t say anything on this subject. It’s sensitive government information. Classified.”

“You can’t say anything, because then I could have you arrested for obstruction.”

Culpepper’s smile dissolved. “You’re a fine criminalist, Grissom. You and your team have done admirable work here—but it’s time to pack up your little silver suitcase and go home. This is over.”

Grissom glanced at Brass. “Those short trips Hyde was making, Jim—he wasn’t doing hits. The Deuce really was retired—and Barry Hyde was off on short hops, testifying in RICO cases and such…. Right, Agent Culpepper?”

“No comment.”

“You people made a deal with a mad dog, and now you’re protecting him, even though he’s murdered two more people.”

Now Culpepper turned to Brass. “Maybe you can explain the facts of life to your naive associate here…. When cases are mounted against organized crime figures—the kind of people who deal in wholesale death, through drugs and vice of every imaginable stripe—deals with devils have to be made. Grown-ups know that, Grissom—they understand choosing between the lesser of evils.”

“Compromise all you want, Culpepper,” Grissom said. “Evidence makes no compromises—science has no opinion beyond the truth.”

The agent laughed. “You ever consider goin’ into the bumper-sticker business, buddy? Maybe you could write fortunes for fortune cookies? You have a certain gift.”

“I like the job I’m doing just fine. I’m just getting started on this case…. ”

“No, Grissom—stick a fork in yourself. You’re done.”

Grissom’s eyes tightened; so did his voice. “When I’m done, Culpepper, you’ll know it—you’ll be up on charges, and Barry Hyde will be on Death Row.”

“Barry Hyde?” Culpepper asked, as if the name meant nothing. “You must be confused—there is no Barry Hyde. Within days the house on Pond Court’ll be empty, and in a week, A-to-Z Video will be a vacant storefront.”

“Call Hyde whatever you want,” Grissom said. “I’ve got enough evidence to arrest him for the murders of Philip Dingelmann, Malachy Fortunato and Marge Kostichek.”

“There’s no one to arrest. Barry Hyde doesn’t exist—it’s sad when a man of your capabilities wastes time chasing windmills.”

“Barry Hyde’s a sociopath, Culpepper,” Grissom said. “What’s your excuse?”

With a small sneer, Culpepper leaned in close and held Grissom’s gaze with his own. “I’m telling you as a brother officer—let it go.”

“You’re not my brother.”

Culpepper shrugged; then he turned and walked quickly out of the store.

Grissom watched the exit expressionlessly, as Brass moved up beside him, saying, “Real charmer, isn’t he?”

“Snake charmer.”

“Is he right? Are we done, you think?”

“Culpepper doesn’t define my job for me—does he define your job for you, Jim?”

“Hell, no!”

“Glad you feel that way. Let’s get back to work.”

They drove back to the house in silence; both men were examining the situation, from the ends of their respective telescopes. The moving van still sat blocking the court, and Grissom had to park around the corner. As they walked past the truck, Brass was concerned to see no one up in the vehicle. “Where are they?”

Grissom shook his head and headed toward the house. The other Tahoe and Brass’s Taurus were still parked out front; the Henderson cops leaned against their squads, sipping something from paper cups. Trotting up the driveway, Grissom led the way through the front door. They found the two movers sitting on the stairs sipping similar cups.

Grissom and Brass nodded to the movers, who nodded back.

“Honey, I’m home!” Grissom announced, voice echoing a bit, in the foyer.

Sara came in from the kitchen, the camera still in her hands. “Where have you been?”

“The neighborhood video store.”

Brass said, “Hyde’s flown the coop.”

Grissom asked her, “Where’s everybody?”

With appropriate gestures, she responded. “Nick’s printing the bathroom, then he’ll be done. Catherine’s doing the garage. Warrick found three pairs of running shoes and bagged them. I think he’s…”

“Right here.” Warrick walked down the stairs, stopping just above the two movers. “You guys want some more lemonade?”

They both shook their heads, sliding to one side, so Warrick could come down the stairs between them.

Warrick stood before Grissom and said, “I’m sure one of those pairs of shoes is the right one, Gris. He had three identical pair—really liked ’em.”

“Anything else?” Grissom asked.

Nick ambled in from the bathroom. “I’ve got plenty of prints…plus, I found this on the desk in Hyde’s office.” He held up a plastic evidence bag with a pile of letters inside. “Letters from Petty to Marge Kostichek—which he obviously stole from Kostichek’s.”

Brass gave Grissom a hard look. “I hope the LAPD catches up with the Petty woman—or that she really knows how to run away and start over. If Hyde has any friends in L.A., we could be looking for another body.”

Grissom asked the movers to wait outside, which they did. Then—with the exception of Catherine, who wasn’t finished out in the garage—Grissom gathered everyone around him in the foyer and explained the video store encounter with Culpepper.

“Prick,” said Warrick.

“You’re saying he just made Hyde disappear,” Sara said.

“After we talked to Hyde last night,” Grissom said, “that was it. Hyde made a call, and they whisked him out of town. He didn’t even stop back at home, for fear he’d run into us.”

Brass said, “And now they’ll start him over, somewhere.”

Sara looked dazed. “How can they do that?”

Brass smiled, wearily. “The feds play by their own rules. They don’t give two shits about ours.”

“So, that’s it?” Nick asked, truly pissed. “We bust our butts, and the FBI pulls the rug out from under us? It’s just…over?”

“I know Gil wants to pursue this,” Brass said, “that’s my desire, too. But maybe we have to face facts—we’ve been screwed over by people who were supposed to be our allies. How do we fight Uncle Sam?”

“Let’s back up,” Grissom said. “Before we march on Washington, let’s review what we have, other than a lot of circumstantial evidence. If Barry Hyde walked into this house, we could arrest him—but could we convict him?”

“We could now,” Catherine said.

Everyone turned to see her standing in the doorway to the attached garage. An evidence bag dangled from her right hand, inside of which was tucked a 1930’s vintage Colt .25 automatic.

Brass felt a smile spreading. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s not a water pistol. And, if the boss will allow me to make an educated guess, I’m predicting the barrel on this baby will match the bullets we took from Marge Kostichek. And the primer markings on shell casings found at all three murders should tie Mr. Barry Hyde up in one big bloody bow.”

Astounded but pleased, Grissom took the bagged weapon, asking her, “Where did you find it?”

“I’ll show you.”

Catherine led the way into the garage. She stopped in front of a fuse box on the back wall, while the others gathered around her in a semicircle. The gray metal box looked like every other fuse box in the world, with conduit running out the top, disappearing inside the false ceiling of the attic above.

“I noted a fuse box in the basement,” she said. “So I wondered why he would have a fuse box in the garage, when there’s no heavy duty tools and only two one-hundred-ten outlets.”

“Nice catch,” Grissom said.

She opened the little gray door, revealing no breakers, no fuses, no anything except the end of the hollow conduit. With her hands in their latex gloves, she removed the gun from the evidence bag to carefully slip it inside the conduit, to demonstrate where she had found it; then just as carefully rebagged the evidence.

Sara, grinning, shaking her head, said, “Almost your classic ‘hide it in plain sight.’ ”

“And the feds lifted him out of this life so fast,” Warrick said, “he didn’t have to take his favorite toy with him.”

“We should look for the black ninja outfit,” Sara said. “He obviously made a quick stop here after he killed Marge Kostichek, before going back to the video store.”

Everyone was smiling now, proud of Catherine, proud of themselves. That left it to Brass to bring them back to reality.

“Okay,” Brass said, “so we have the evidence. But we still don’t have Barry Hyde. He’s in the FBI’s loving arms, helping them bring the really big bad guys down.”

“Please,” Sara said, making a face. “I may want to eat again, someday.”

Grissom did not seem put off by Brass’s little speech. “Let’s get back to work. Sara’s right, let’s look for those clothes…. We’ve got a killer to catch.”

“But Brass said this was over,” Nick said.

“We need to gather our evidence,” Grissom said, calmly, “analyze it, prepare it for use in Hyde’s eventual prosecution. And, of course, Sara’s going to play the major role.”

“I am?” she asked, bewildered.

“Don’t be modest,” Grissom said, with a tiny enigmatic smile. “Let’s finish up here, guys—then we’ll go back and I’ll tell you how we’re going to nail Barry’s hide to our non-federal wall.”