Binding Ties (21 page)

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 most of the back of it.

With a nod toward the man's hand, Brass said, “Quite a purple badge of honor you got yourself there, Jer.”

Dayton lowered the hand, shrugged. “Shut it in the car door.” He shrugged. “I get distracted sometimes. Do stupid things. Don't you, Captain?”

“Been known to. But why don't you let us do you a solid—I'll have one of the CSIs take a picture of that mitt of yours, we can be witnesses, and you can use it when you sue the car manufacturer.”

“Lame,” he said, shaking his head. “So lame. Are we done?”

Nick said, “We could be, if you'd let us take a DNA sample.”

Catherine said, “Clear you once and for all.”

The armor-piercing gaze shifted toward Catherine. “My name wouldn't
need
clearing, if Detective Brassballs here hadn't made a hobby out of me, when I was just a damn defenseless kid. This jerk harassed my family, during the original CASt case, and now he's trying to do it again. I'm almost glad my parents are gone, so they don't have to endure this humiliation a second time.”

“Speaking of which,” Brass said, “who
is
your caregiver now, Jerry? You are still on medication, I presume….”

“I'm a big boy, Captain. I take of myself, and yes, I am on medication, and have been since you railroaded me into that institution.”

“If you feel railroaded,” Catherine said, “why keep taking the meds?”

His chin, which was almost pointed, lifted. “I don't deny that I have certain medical problems. I have a chemical imbalance that manifests itself, on occasion, as what you cretins would call mental illness. I monitor my own condition now.”

Nick asked, “How's that going?”

“Very well. It's working. I take my meds on schedule, every day—I even have a little pillbox with the days printed on, like the senior citizens.”

“Nothing to be ashamed of,” Nick said.

The green eyes flared and so did the hawkish nostrils. “Who in
hell
is
ashamed?”

Holding up hands, half-smiling, Nick said, “Whoa—little touchy, aren't we?”

Their reluctant host swallowed. Summoning dignity, he said, “I have lost both my parents. They were never the same after the CASt debacle. I watched them both die, slowly, a process that began long before they actually ceased to breathe.”

Dayton's glare returned to Brass.

“It started,” the man said, “when they had to put me in that place, that … that
home.
Well, I'll tell you
how much progress I've made, Captain, battling my illness. I used to blame
you
for their deaths.” He pointed a purple finger at Brass. “But now I know … you were only doing your job. Trying to do your best for the community, however misguided and misinformed you were…. My psychiatrist almost got me convinced that it wasn't your fault.”

Brass said, “So you're not mad at me, anymore, Jerry?”

Dayton shrugged. “Well … therapy is an ongoing process.”

“Speaking of which, what's your doctor's name?”

“I don't have to share that with you.”

If Brass's grin had been any tighter, his face would have split. “How about I get a court order, Jerry, and we try this again?”

“Want a name? I'll give you a name.”

“Thank you.” Brass got his notebook out, pen poised to write.

“Carlisle Deams—D-E-A-M-S. My attorney.”

Brass put the notebook away.

Grinning his wide white grin, Dayton said, “And I guarantee you, Captain, he'll be at the courthouse before you. While you attempt to get your nontestimonial court order to get my DNA, my attorney will be filing an injunction to stop you from harassing me further.”

“When'd you learn so much about the system, Jerry?”

“I started studying up in Sundown. I had plenty of time—and incentive.”

Brass studied the man. “How about I get a patrol car to park outside here, until we get back with our nontestimonial court order?”

A flip phone came out of Dayton's pants pocket. He hit a button. While he waited for someone to answer, he said, “Captain, Captain … you make this too,
too
easy….”

Brass spun on his heel and pushed through a faintly startled Catherine and Nick and stalked off. They followed quietly.

As he went down the driveway, Brass could hear Dayton say, “Carlisle? Jerry Dayton.” After a pause, he said, “Fine, fine. I'm just calling to remind you why I keep you on a such a healthy retainer….”

Brass, pleased he'd managed not to pop the guy, walked around the Tahoe and got out of earshot. To his surprise, Nick and Catherine were right behind him.

Nick said, “He doesn't
seem
delusional.”

Catherine said, “He's smart.”

Brass just shook his head. “I don't want to talk about it—we'll pick it up back at the lab, okay?”

He stomped off, got into his car and managed not to peel out as he gunned the gas and sped away. He was only a block away when he called dispatch and ordered a patrol car to come sit on Jerry Dayton's front door.

If Jerry Dayton thought Brass had been kidding, the guy really
was
delusional….

Warrick Brown found Grissom and Sara in the former's office, going over crime-scene photos from the Bell murder. Flopping down in a chair in front of Grissom's desk, he let out a long sigh.

“Good news,” Warrick said, “bad news. Choose.”

Grissom said, “Good?”

“Finally matched the fingerprints on the
Banner
keycard.”

“They belong to Perry Bell.”

All the air went out of Warrick's balloon. “How the heck did you know?”

“Same way I know the bad news is no one else's prints are on the card.”

Warrick sat up straighter now. It drove him nuts when Grissom did this and the CSI supervisor did it a lot—to all of them. “Greg already gave you the report?”

Grissom shook his head.

That was the other thing that made Warrick mental: Grissom never told him how he knew these things.

Warrick went to the doorway, turned and pointed an accusatory finger at his boss. “If you're
guessing
again …”

Grissom cast a boyish smile Warrick's way. “No reason to get nasty.”

Warrick trudged back to the lab, and immediately dug in to work on the remainder of the prints. His goal was to know who was who, and where they
were, in proximity to the crimes. And he wanted to know before
Grissom
knew….

He dumped all the prints into the computer and let the software sort out what matched what. While he waited, he caught up on reports, starting with one Greg had sent that said the dried blood in the Bell home all came from Bell himself.

Another report showed that the synthetic hairs removed from Enrique Diaz matched the toupee of the late Perry Bell. If the late Bell really was the copycat—which was strongly suggested by his ersatz hair being on Diaz's body and his
Banner
keycard being found at the scene—did that mean they were now only looking for one killer?

Had CASt served as vigilante, showed the copycat who the
real
Bad Boy in Town was, and capped the cat?

Warrick wasn't sure what to think.

Thankfully, he had little time to worry about it. His phone rang and Grissom told him to grab his kit—an officer had found Perry Bell's missing car.

The parking garage for the Big Apple Casino and Hotel hid behind the main building, which was on the corner of Tropicana and Las Vegas Boulevard. The six-story concrete parking structure was the perfect place to ditch a ride. A cop on a routine drive-through had spotted the local wheels parked on the sixth level, almost by itself.

When the officer ran the car, Brass's APB came
up, and the officer called in that he had found Bell's car.

The 2003 blue Cadillac hunkered in a corner, a lonely visitor to the Big Apple. While Grissom worked the trunk, Sara hit the backseat, and Warrick labored up front.

Warrick found several hairs lodged in the seams of the headrest, which he carefully caught with tweezers, then bagged. He dusted the ignition, the dash, the steering wheel, and the glove compartment for fingerprints, vacuumed the floor for stray fibers and detritus, then used the electrostatic print lifter to get footprints from the gas and brake pedals.

When he had finished all that, Warrick went over the seats (as they said in the Vegas lounges) one more time. Just on the front edge of the driver's seat, out of sight (unless you were on hands and knees), he found a maroon spot, the diameter of a pencil.