Binding Ties Read Free Page B

Heat shimmered off the pavement outside this house; but sadness shimmered off the house itself.
    As Grissom hopped down from the Tahoe, his peripheral vision caught an unmarked Ford pulling up on the other side of the street. He paused to glance back and see the detective getting out, a lanky six-three in an ill-fitting gray suit—Bill Damon. The detective was still in his late twenties, having been with the North Las Vegas PD for five or six years, now deep into his first year as a detective. Though his pants always seemed an inch or so too short, and his jacket seemed large enough for a man twice his size, Damon fit the job nicely—if still unseasoned as a detective, this was a good cop, with his heart in the right place.
    While more than a hundred thousand souls made North Las Vegas their home—and had their own police department—the Las Vegas crime scene analysts served all of Clark County, which meant occasionally the CSIs worked with detectives from departments other than their own. Grissom had run into Damon on a couple of cases before, but always as the secondary detective, never the primary.
    As the detective crossed the street, he held out his hand to Grissom—long, slender fingers with big, knobby knuckles.
    â€œGil,” he said as they shook. “Been a while.”
    â€œYes it has,” Grissom said, offering up a noncommital smile.
    â€œChecked inside yet?”
    The CSI supervisor shook his head. “Just got here. All we know is it’s a 420.”
    Damon shrugged. “Which is what I know. Guess we better get informed….”
    â€œAlways a good policy.”
    While Grissom’s team unloaded their gear from the back of their vehicles, a stocky, sawed-off uniformed cop walked over from the front door of the bungalow to join them. He carried a click-top ballpoint pen in one hand and a notebook in the other. His nametag said LOGAN . An African-American of forty or so, he wore his hair trimmed short, which minimized the tiny patches of gray here and there. He stood just above the minimum height requirement, making the tall Damon seem towering.
    Logan nodded to Grissom but gave his attention to his own department’s detective.
    â€œHey, Henry,” Damon said.
    â€œHey, Bill.”
    So much for small talk.
    Logan smirked humorlessly, nodding back at the house. “Got a real ugly number for you in there. Guy murdered in his living room—but I sure don’t call that living.”
    Grissom asked, “You’ve been inside?”
    Logan nodded, shrugged. “Don’t worry—your evidence oughta be waiting, and plenty of it. All I didwas clear the place and make sure the killer was gone. One path in, one path out.”
    â€œGood,” Grissom said, looking toward the house again.
    No screen and the front door yawned wide.
    â€œDid you open that door, Officer Logan?” Grissom asked.
    â€œHell no. Do I look like—”
    â€œHave you done this before? Cleared a murder scene?”
    â€œHad my fair share of bodies over the years. And this is the kind of corpse you don’t trip over or anything—guy’s in plain sight from the front doorway, and dead as shit.”
    Grissom’s smile was so small it barely qualified. “Officer, I don’t care how many murders you’ve covered, our victim deserves more respect than that.”
    Logan looked at Grissom like the CSI was from outer space.
    Damon asked, “You’re
sure
he’s dead?”
    Logan gave the detective a vaguely patronizing look. “Hey, I been doin’ this a long time, Bill. Like I said, this guy’s dead as … can be—or I’d have an ambulance here and we’d be wheeling him out. Take a look for yourself.”
    But Grissom wasn’t satisfied with the background yet. “How did the call come in?”
    â€œNext-door neighbor,” Logan said, jerking athumb over his shoulder. “She went out to the