A/N: New chapter for the weekend! Thanks for reading. A special thank you to those who take time to send comments!
A Return to Vegas
Chapter 10
Jim Brass had stared at a gun barrel in the past. He'd been shot twice; seen more than his share of fellow officers hit by a bullet. He'd seen a lot of guns in his time and for the life of him, he could not remember seeing the particular one held by the stranger standing in his house.
The guy had followed him inside—of course, Brass had not locked his front door. He knew his neighbors; knew the area was safe from most crimes and he'd grown careless.
Now, this stranger was pointing a gun at him.
As Brass stared at the gun, figuring out it was an old Ruger pistol with a silencer probably forty years old, the guy talked in nonsense circles about killing himself because of what he had done but had changed his mind and now would probably die as suicide by cops. None of it made sense but, somehow, Brass managed to silence his phone and pressed redial.
…Alan Caldwell's day had started as usual—arriving at work to clock in on time, following the showgirls out on Freemont for their first walk of the day. Early, but people were around and wanted photos taken with the girls. He kept an eye on the men—no touching allowed—but the girls would often drape an arm over someone's shoulder and that was allowed.
Today, nothing happened; photographs taken with tourists and the walk finished at the doors of the casino. At that moment, his phone chirped with the sound set for his mother. He had to answer it; she'd keep calling until he did.
Her shrill distraught voice immediately got his full attention. He felt as though someone had gripped his heart in their fist and squeezed it. How had they figured out he had hacked the lab—or had they actually mentioned his name?
His mother was making no sense. Something about guns and Dave Spencer had taken his gun to the lab and now he'd gone in to meet with investigators. She kept talking, mentioned another name and started screeching that she would turn him in if he'd ruined her life and her sister's life; he told her he had to go and hung up.
Walking to his car—he knew there was no reason to clock out because he would not be returning—he tried to run through his list of fantasies of how to explain what he'd done. And finally, as he drove, a dark, tickling thought began to form.
Caldwell's father had been dead for years but an old pistol belonging to his father was in a wooden box at the back of a closet. It had been purchased before all the current paperwork was required—and it was silenced so it would not disturb the peace if used in an urban setting. As a teenager, he had set up hay bales in the back yard and used them for target practice.
His mother had never known he'd shot the weapon.
He got home, dug out the box, and took out the gun, wrapped in a cloth, and a box of bullets. The longer he held the gun, the more he became convinced that he could eliminate one person and no longer have a problem. He gathered a few other items—a hat, a pair of thin disposable gloves, a large rag in case he had to stifle a scream.
Driving across town, he was lucky with light traffic and mostly green signals and knowing where he was going. He'd driven his aunt to Dave Spencer's house numerous times. And now the old cop had taken a gun to the lab—Caldwell knew it had something to do with ballistics and the virus he'd placed into the data base but he couldn't figure out why his name had been discovered.
Of course, his mother was repeating words from her sister and between the two, the real significance of investigators from the lab and Dave's gun was lost on them. His mother knew nothing about his project—and certainly had not put together a trail between his computer and a virus in the crime lab. Or at least he didn't think she had.
He braked to a stop in front of Dave's house, felt the gun in his pocket, and got out of his car. He'd put a stop to anything going further; a dead Dave couldn't talk. He would get away with this, he thought. Home invasion and a man killed with an untraceable gun—Alan Caldwell would never be discovered as the killer. He'd be out of town by sunset headed to California.
As he approached the house, he thought 'Is this really necessary? It was possible that his mother had everything mixed up.' But he knew—his gut knew that somehow he had been discovered and it was Spencer's fault.
Pulling on the thin gloves, touching the gun under his jacket, a fumbling check that a round was in the chamber, and he walked to the front door. He froze at the door, backed away, and stood there for a minute before he stepped forward and rang the doorbell.
A moment later, the door opened. Caldwell lifted the gun and fired three quick shots—into the face of Lena Spencer. She toppled back and landed on a rug with a muffled thud.
Caldwell was stunned. He'd killed a woman—too late he remembered Dave had a wife. He guessed he'd stood in the door for several minutes when it was less than a minute before he stepped inside, closed the door, and went in search of Dave Spencer.
It worried Caldwell that he'd killed the woman. His intention was to kill the retired cop to shut him up. What had his mother said, running her mouth about Dave Spencer—Caldwell was still puzzled how Spencer had connected him to the hack but then his mother had mentioned Jim Brass.
His Aunt Brenda had worked for Captain Brass for twenty years and he'd heard enough to know she idolized the man, where he lived, when he retired, how he'd worked for one of the casinos and made good money. According to his aunt, Brass had played a crucial role in solving many hard to crack cases in Vegas. Perhaps Spencer and Brass had figured out who had hacked the lab. In his muddled brain, Jim Brass became the next person he needed to silence.
As Caldwell drove, he attempted to arrange his thoughts and actions. Dave Spencer or Jim Brass had to have suggested his name and hearing his mother's shrill voice accusing him of messing up her life had pressed the first finger of panic. He smacked his hand on the steering wheel, anger, frustration boiling over as he waited for the traffic light to change.
After he'd shot Dave Spencer who was sitting at the dining room table and had not even realized his wife had been shot, Caldwell had thought to grab keys and a wallet. Home invasion, he'd remembered. So deep in thought, he almost missed the turn into the neighborhood where Jim Brass lived.
There was no car in the driveway of the small house. If the retired cop had made a lot of money working for a casino, why was he still living in this place, Caldwell thought. He drove around the block once, twice, checking out the neighborhood, and as he returned, he saw the man pull into the driveway and get out of his car.
Perfect timing, he thought, slowing to let Brass get into the house before he parked across the street. He'd kept the gloves on as he drove, and checked the gun, replaced the bullets before getting out of the car.
It surprised him when he tested the door and it opened—quietly and easily—and he stepped inside.
…Jim Brass could not believe a guy had followed him into the house and pulled a gun on him. His mind was in such turmoil what with trying to work his phone without looking—he was fairly sure the call had gone through to Grissom—and trying to catch something in the guy's words to provide a clue to what was happening.
Was the guy on drugs? A random home invasion? A grudge long-forgotten? Brass' mind was tumbling through a dozen scenarios at the same moment as he was trying to calm the guy. A name—the guy said a name—Dave Spencer—he'd shot Dave.
"And I killed his wife—the woman opened the door and I shot her." The man started to cry, swiping his hand across his face. "Now, I got to kill you too—one of you, both of you, figured out what I did."
The entire time, he had kept the gun aimed at Brass but when he wiped his hand across his face, his gun hand moved.
Brass reached for the first thing he could find—a bottle of root beer behind him—and threw it at the man holding the gun. He expected a blast but instead the sound was a muffled discharge; a split second later, there was a second muffled shot but Brass had managed to open the refrigerator door and ducked behind it. Working quickly, he threw bottle after bottle in the direction where he thought the guy was standing and when there were no other shots, he looked around the door.
No one was standing there. A dozen bottles—beer, water, catsup, mustard, soy sauce bottles—were scattered across the floor. For a moment, Jim Brass thought he'd had a dream. Except for the hole in his refrigerator door—his finger touched it, still warm, and then felt his legs and belly, his chest and arms, finding no wounds.
Five seconds passed before he pulled his phone from his pocket and asked, "Grissom, are you there? Did you hear this?"
When he heard his old friend's voice, Brass slipped to the floor, his back resting on the lower cabinet as relief made him weak.
"We're almost there," Grissom said. "The police or EMTs should be there in minutes!"
"He's gone," Brass managed to say.
Six minutes passed before Sara ran inside his house and found Jim sitting in a chair getting checked by a young EMT. She had pushed Chris to drive fast and silently and was not gentle as she pushed the EMT out of her way and moved into the space in front of Brass, kneeling, hugging him tightly as he told her he was fine.
Grissom and Maxine rushed into the house a few minutes later.
It was a while before everyone talked enough for Jim to understand what had happened and by then, Maxine, Sara, Grissom and several others had moved to Jim's back porch while a crime scene crew worked inside the house. They had been able to laugh about the 'choice' of weapons Brass had used on the attacker.
Alan Caldwell had been inside the house for less than five minutes; even though, Brass would have sworn fifteen minutes had passed as he'd stared at the gun. The fire department had arrived first, followed by two cruisers and EMTs; none had seen a car leaving the street.
"We've got to find this guy," Maxine said. Her phone pinged with a message. After reading it, she said, "We've got an address—he lives with his mother."
Bewildered, Brass said, "He's Wanda's son? Brenda's nephew? Why does he want to shoot us? I don't know the guy!"
Maxine shook her head, saying, "We don't know—why you and Dave?"
"And why hack the ballistic records?" Sara asked.
"Do you two want to head over to this address? We'll get it cleared before we go in." Maxine asked, nodding at Sara and Grissom. "We hope there is something there."
Grissom knew Sara was ready and willing; while he wanted to go, he wanted to make sure Brass was safe. He said, "You go—I'll stay with Jim. Or better yet—Jim, grab a change of clothes. We'll go to Catherine's." Leaning to Sara, he kissed her cheek, whispering, "Be careful—we'll be waiting."
Sara promised, saying, "I'll take a look and leave it with the experts."
Maxine snorted a chuckle. She said, "Come on, girlfriend. We're going to nail this bastard and you'll be home in time for a hot shower and bedtime story."
A/N: Brass is safe and Sara heads into the search! Thanks for reading-more to come.