Entry #5 in the "A Year in the Life" series. An open murder investigation pits Brass against a vengeful husband, and Wendy Simms is caught in the crossfire. You know the drill -- CSI is not my sandbox. If it were, there would be greater consumption of good Mexican food and margaritas.

It Catches Up To You
by Alice Day

CHAPTER ONE

The man stood on the sidewalk, ignoring the warm, dusty wind playing against his cheek. He smoked his cigarette and stared at the little stucco house with its gravel front yard. It was one of the ex-rentals that littered North Las Vegas, now sold by their former owners to snowbird retirees or burgeoning Hispanic families.

He'd lived in the stucco house a long time ago. He could still imagine Alana bustling in the kitchen, bringing him a cold beer while he talked with his brothers in the living room, or brushing her long black hair in the bedroom. It was going to be the house where everything started for them -- kids, decent jobs, a good life.

And then Lupo talked him into that dumbass holdup at the Citgo on Tropicana. They didn't expect an off-duty security guard to walk in while the clerk was emptying out the cash register. He definitely didn't expect Lupo to shoot at the guard, or the guard to shoot back. They hit each other square on, and Lupo died on the floor of the gas station, choking on his own blood. The guard died later, making it a felony murder, and the station's closed circuit camera caught it all.

The cops found him at home, throwing clothes into a bag. He could still hear Alana screaming as they pulled him into the cruiser. His trial was a joke; he had a record, the cops had him on the damned CC tape, and Lupo's blood was all over his clothes. Felony murder meant he went straight to the pen. Away from Alana, away from their home, away from their life.

Fuck you, Lupo. I hope your sorry ass is roasting in hell.

He took a final puff, and tossed the cigarette to the sidewalk, crushing it out with his boot. He'd been in jail before; it was hard as hell, being away from Alana, but he knew how to work the system. And Alana was a fucking saint. She got a job as a cleaning lady for one of the casinos, and came every third Thursday and sat with him, talking about anything he wanted, kissing her fingertips and pressing them to the smeared glass before she left. She said she'd wait for him, and she did, not like some of the whores out there who found another man after a couple of weeks. Just knowing that she was out there kept him sane.

And then, years later, there was another holdup in North Las Vegas, this one hitting a 7-11. The chingas du madre who held up the place shot the clerk and two other people, before emptying the cash register and taking off into the hot Vegas night. One of the victims had been Alana. She'd been shot in the lung, and died spitting blood onto the store's dirty tile floor.

His cellmate had one of those Word-A-Day calendars, and sometimes he'd read a definition for the hell of it. One of the words he'd learned was "irony." Carida, I'm sorry.

They'd let him out long enough to attend her funeral. He wore a borrowed suit that didn't fit him and a pair of handcuffs that chained him to a uniformed prison guard as his wife's coffin was lowered into the ground. Two months later, the parole board finally got tired of looking at his sorry ass and turned him loose. Well, his wife's dead and we fucked him over good -- we can boot him out, now.

His brother still lived in North Las Vegas, and gave him crash space, hooking him up with a lawn service that didn't look too closely at their employee's green cards or backgrounds. He checked in with his parole officer like clockwork, slept on his brother's couch, worked like a fucking slave cutting grass and trimming bushes for rich people. And every so often he'd go past the house where he'd lived with Alana.

Some old snowbird owned it now, coming out occasionally to feed the stray cats that camped out in his carport. The snowbird had skin like old grey paper and body language that said every move hurt. He'd seen that look before with his Tio Alberto; the guy had cancer somewhere, eating away at him.

So he started making plans. He got worried when the snowbird disappeared for a week, but then some other old guy brought him back, pretty much lugging him into the house and dumping him on the couch. The old fart hadn't moved much since; if he wasn't dead already, he would be real soon.

So it had to be now. He needed a place, and the snowbird would be easy to handle. With any luck, he wouldn't even have to kill the old guy.

And the girl could take care of him in the meantime.

He glanced up and down the street, then headed to the house.

###

Jim Brass stood on the veranda of the mansion, trying to mask his nervousness as he rang the bell. He'd offered to pick up Ellie from her first session with her new LV therapist; to his surprise, she agreed.

He frowned at the architectural elements surrounding the door, wondering if the interior décor had changed at all in the last few years. God, I hope so. He still couldn't believe he was doing this, but the new shrink came highly recommended by Ellie's LA therapist, and Catherine supported the choice. "She understands how to put a life back together, Jim," the CSI advised. "I think she'll be good for Ellie."

The door opened, and a strikingly beautiful woman with dark auburn hair and slanted blue eyes stood there with a smile. "Hello, Captain Brass," she said in her warm alto. "It's good to see you again."

"Hello, L -- Dr. Kessler," Brass muttered. "Uh, is Ellie ready?"

His daughter appeared at the therapist's side. "Dad, you didn't have to come to the door," she chided.

He shrugged. "Just wanted you to know I was here," he said.

Ellie's lips pursed into something halfway between a smirk and a smile. "Well, now I know," she said, turning to Heather. "Dr. Kessler, this is my dad, Jim Brass."

"We've met before," the therapist said, keeping an admirably straight face. "I'll see you next week, Ellie?"

"Yeah. And thanks."

With a smile, Heather closed the door, and Brass followed Ellie down the steps to his car. "So..."

"So...it was interesting." The late afternoon sunlight broke through a bank of clouds in the west, glittering on Ellie's hair and giving her a temporary halo. "She's cool for a shrink. Kind of old-fashioned -- I mean, she actually made me tea, out of a teapot and everything. But I think it'll be good." She cocked her head to the side, considering him. "Where did you meet her before?"

"It's...a long story," the Homicide detective said warily. I don't care what Ellie did in LA -- there is no fucking way I'm telling her about the Dominion and Lady Heather. Instead, he checked his watch -- 5:02 PM. "Look, you want to grab something to eat?" he asked. "I could go for Don Miguel's."

Ellie grinned. "I'd kill for a chicken burrito right now," she admitted. "Wanna call Catherine and see if she can meet us?"

The increasingly warm relationship between Ellie and Catherine never ceased to tickle Brass. "I think she and Lindsey were supposed to go shopping," he said. "Let's just have dinner by ourselves -- I can drop you off at work afterwards."

"Sounds like a plan."

As they got into the car, he heard the rumble of thunder in the distance. Rain on the way.

###

The man took a deep drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke trickle out of his nostrils as he watched the first drops of rain patter down on the cracked windshield. His brother was good about lending him the car every so often, as long as he put gas in it. It let him get out, do what he needed to do.

He spotted the Charger pulling out of the restaurant on Maryland, and pulled in two cars behind it. By now, he knew Don Miguel's was one of their pre-work hangouts. It was just a matter of waiting for them to show up.

Alana's killers were still out there, three months after he watched her coffin lowered into the ground. One of the first things he did when he got back on the street was find out who was supposed to investigate her death. It turned out to be two street cops and one Homicide detective -- Officer Davis, Officer Abels and Captain Brass.

He did some more digging. The street cops were useless, but Brass was the captain of the Homicide detectives -- he was even on TV occasionally, standing behind that bald fuck who was the undersheriff. So he called Brass's office, pretending to be Alana's nephew, and asked when they were going to find the bastards who killed her. The man had the cojones to tell him that the case was ongoing. "The case is ongoing," my Chicano ass. Like anyone at the LVPD cared about some dead cleaning lady.

Well, he would give them a reason to care.

After that, he waited outside the parking garage at the police station, watching every car that came and went until he spotted Brass behind the wheel of a black Dodge Charger. He found out other things, like where Brass lived in Henderson. And that he had a daughter who worked evenings at a restaurant in the Henderson Galleria. Pendejo didn't know how lucky he was, having a kid.

A bolt of lighting sizzled across the sky, and the rumble shook the car as the downpour thickened, smearing the windshield. He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray and flicked on the wipers, staying just close enough to tail the Charger through the evening traffic.

Unsurprisingly, it wound up at the Galleria. The passenger side popped open, and a small shape wearing an oversized yellow slicker with LVPD across the back got out.

Must be Brass's kid. From the body language, she wasn't all that happy about wearing the cop raincoat. He could see Brass lean across the seat, saying something; the girl shook her head and turned, heading into the mall.

Now he just had to wait.

###

As soon as she was inside the mall, Ellie scooted into an alcove next to Auntie Anne's Pretzels and wiggled out of the slicker. "Just take it," Dad insisted. "I've got my duty jacket in the trunk. It'll keep you dry on the way home."

There were times when she could argue with him and win. Right before she was supposed to start her shift, however, was not one of them. So Ellie rolled her eyes and put on the waterproof yellow jacket, trying to ignore the fact that she now looked like an oversized bath toy. The hell with the bus stop -- I'm taking a cab home. And I swear I am picking up some wheels the second I have enough cash--

"Ellie?"

She turned and saw an attractive brunette toting a Sephora bag, and a memory clicked. I think she works at the Crime Lab -- I met her that time Dad took me to breakfast with Catherine and Nick. Wanda, Winnie-- "Wendy?"

"Yeah," Wendy Simms said with a smile. She glanced at the slicker, and the smile turned into a grin. "Let me guess -- your dad?"

"Who else." Ellie hefted the slicker and grimaced. "He wouldn't take no for an answer."

"I bet he wouldn't. Well, at least you're dry," the DNA tech said. She made a face at the mall doors and the storm beyond. "I'm parked out in Ulan Bator, and I'm gonna get soaked before I can get to my car."

Ding ding ding. With a generous expression, Ellie held out the slicker. "Be my guest. Please."

Wendy's eyes went wide. "Seriously?"

"Seriously. I'm taking a cab home -- I won't need it."

"Well, if you're sure." The brunette took the slicker, sliding into it. "How do I look?"

Ellie couldn't help grinning. "Like a big rubber duck."

Wendy grinned back. "Yeah, but a big dry rubber duck," she said. "I really appreciate this -- I'll drop it off with your dad tonight, okay?"

"Great. And if he gets cranky about it, please remind him that I won't melt."

"Got it. You have a good night."

"You, too." With a wave, Ellie turned and headed for Sullivan's. Go me. Okay, I wonder how much I'd need for something like an old Tercel...

###

As soon as she cleared the mall doors Wendy flipped the hood up, stepping out into the downpour. The Sephora bag with Mandy's birthday present was safely tucked under the slicker; her shoes and the hems of her slacks were getting soaked, but everything else would stay nice and dry for work tonight.

She hummed as she headed towards her car. Walking around in a slicker was actually kind of fun, like when she was a kid. Just for the hell of it, she splashed through a puddle, kicking up a spray of water. Wonder if I can flick some of this on Hodges -- the look on his face would be priceless--

She heard the squeal of a loose alternator belt, and an old car pulled up next to her. "Hey, lady, you know how to get to the 515 from here?" someone called.

She turned. "Yeah, just go--"

The words froze as a very large gun barrel slid through the open window, pointing directly at her.

"Get in the car, honey," the driver said. "Now."

###

Brass studied his tie rack, trying to decide between brown and black stripes and a gold herringbone for the mellow taupe suit laid out on the bed behind him. It's not easy being a fashion plate, but someone's gotta do it. And damn, I make brown look good.

His cell phone buzzed. Still studying the ties, he pulled the phone out of his pocket. "Brass."

Silence. And then, "Daddy?"

He frowned. "Ellie?"

"Daddy." The strained female voice was familiar, but it didn't sound anything like Ellie. "Daddy, listen to me. It's very important. I need you to solve a murder for me, okay?"

He went cold. "Who is this?"

"Daddy, please listen. Her name was Alana Rodriguez. She was shot during a holdup at a 7-11. You need to solve her murder, or," the woman gulped, "or I won't be coming home. Alana Rodriguez, Daddy. Please help--"

The line went dead. Swearing, Brass stabbed at the phone's keypad, searching for call records and the last incoming call. 702-555-1966. Not Ellie's number, and definitely not Ellie's voice.

So who the hell was calling him Daddy and begging him to solve a murder?

Grimly, he hit a number on speed dial and waited. "Yeah, Catherine, it's Jim. I think I've got a problem..."