Binding Ties by Max Allan Collins Page A

pointed at him. “Jimmy? You’re … Jimmy?”
    â€œKeep that to yourself.”
    â€œThat’s asking a lot.”
    â€œDon’t make me shoot you.”
    Grissom was smiling at Brass, who was smiling atthe tiny woman who stood just outside her doorway with outstretched arms.
    â€œMargie,” 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.
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œIt’s working the damn nightshift,” Brass said. “I got no social life. You were lucky you hooked up with Vince so close to retirement.”
    â€œYeah, I missed all the
fun
of being a cop’s wife, right?” She released Brass and finally noticed Grissom.“I recognize you from TV—you’re the one who’s always nabbing the bad guys!”
    Brass glanced at Grissom, who seemed to be trying to decide whether to be confused or embarrassed.
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œNo one knows,” Brass said.
    Margie stuck her hand out and Grissom took and shook it.
    â€œAren’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.
    â€œDid Vince get back yet?” Brass asked.
    â€œAfraid not,” Margie said, finally releasing the CSI’s hand. “No, like I said on the phone, he’s been gone since early this morning.”
    â€œBut he will be back soon?”
    â€œShould 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; butnow 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.
    â€œJim!
Why you dirty son of a—”
    Margie shushed him loudly and said, “Vince, please … the neighbors.” Then she whispered to Brass and Grissom, “We have