Binding Ties by Max Allan Collins Page B

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.
    â€œLet’s go inside,” Champlain said, waving them toward the open door, “where I can say ‘son of a bitch’ without Margie having heart failure.”
    â€œVin
-cent,” Margie scolded, but she was smiling.
    Margie went in first, Champlain followed, and Brass looked at Grissom and said, “After you, Gilbert …”
    â€œNo, 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 of a coffee table floated. Champlain gestured easily for them to sit. Brass and Grissom took the sofa while Champlain fell into his lounge chair.
    â€œBeer, gents?” their host asked.
    â€œNo, thanks,” Brass said. “We’re actually on duty.”
    â€œThought you guys were strictly graveyard…?”
    Grissom said, “Dayshift’s got sick leave and court time.”
    Brass said, “Pulling more than our share of double shifts.”
    â€œDon’t bitch,” Champlain said. He’d been the kind of career cop who had not looked forward to his last day on the job. “I miss what you got … though retirement does have its bennies.”
    Hovering, Margie asked, “How about some of that decaf?”
    â€œPlease,” Brass said.
    â€œYes, thank you,” Grissom said.
    â€œBottle of water, honey, please,” Champlain said.
    Margie disappeared through a doorway into the kitchen.
    â€œTwo under par today,” Champlain said, only the merest trace of gloating in his voice. “Golf’s one of those bennies I was talking about.”
    â€œWhere at?” Brass asked dutifully.
    â€œRio Secco,” Champlain said, as if that would mean something to the cops.
    Brass nodded like he understood and the expression on Grissom’s face said that he suspected Champlain was speaking Esperanto.
    â€œNow,” Champlain said with a glance toward the kitchen, “surely a couple of on-duty coppers like you two didn’t come all the way out here to the old fart’shome to hear me brag about my golf game…. What’s up?”
    â€œI think we may have a ghost,” Brass said.
    Champlain sat forward, eyes slitted. “The past rattling its chains, is it? Some old pal of ours resurface?”
    Margie brought in a tray with cups of coffee for herself, Grissom, and Brass, and a cold-sweating bottle of Evian for her husband.
    Again she hovered, clearly wondering if she should alight and join the party—but was she wanted?
    â€œTo what do we owe this pleasure?” Margie asked tentatively.
    â€œBusiness, dear,” Champlain said.
    â€œOh,” Margie said, her disappointment not well hidden. “I just remembered—I have some straightening to do in the bedroom.”
    Champlain gave his wife a warm smile. “Thank you, babydoll.”
    After the “babydoll” in her early seventies walked down