"Relax, Jackie Chan," Brass said, adding "LVMPD," even as he reached into his pocket for his badge wallet.
The man's only break from his stance was to use one hand to push the black horn-rimmed glasses further up his nose. "Take that ID out slow," he demanded, his voice still booming.
Brass held out his badge. Sara and Warrick pointed to the plastic ID necklaces. She noticed that their reluctant host wore old, un-laced-up running shoes that would have gone flying in any karate attack.
Was this buffoon their killer?
The skinny guy, swallowing, finally rose out of his stance and looked over each of their I.D.s, comparing their faces to the pictures on the cards.
"Sorry," he said, a little sheepishly. "Have to be careful, these days. Lotta psychos out there…. And you startled me."
Brass gave him a facial shrug. "We didn't think anyone was home."
"Well, I am home," he said, pointlessly. "But I have a bad cold. I've been in bed on NyQuil since yesterday morning, dead to the world…. A little better now."
That explained why no one had answered the bell on Warrick and Brass's first stop by the house.
Brass finally got around to asking, "Are you Kyle F. Hamilton?"
The guy nodded. "Listen, I'm a big supporter of law enforcement. I didn't mean to scare you."
Warrick's mouth twitched as he fought a smile and Sara turned her head and coughed to cover her laugh.
"How may I be of help, officers?"
Brass said, "Your car has come up in an ongoing investigation. It appears to be routine, but we'd like to talk to you about it."
"My car? Well, I haven't even been out since yesterday. I was following up on an installation at New York New York, and this cold just did me in."
With his narrow face and high cheekbones, his wide blue eyes darting from one to the other of them, Hamilton had a confused, vaguely victimized expression that reminded Sara of several other nerdy, paranoid types she'd met who'd gone into security work.
Brass was saying, "Mr. Hamilton, can we come in? This should only take a minute or two."
Hamilton said, "Of course," then to Warrick, Hamilton added, "Could you get the paper? That's why I was going outside in the first place."
"Sure thing," Warrick said with a smile, and did, then followed Brass into the house, Sara trailing them both.
The front door opened into a modest entryway with a smallish living room to the right. The hard-wood floor was covered only in the very center by a small round rug depicting the yin and yang. A white futon hugged the back wall and a small television perched on a low table against the front wall with DVD and VCR beneath. A cloth wall hanging of Bruce Lee hung prominently in the center of the far wall.
"So what's my car got to do with anything?" Hamilton asked, his face revealing a thousand dire scenarios unfolding themselves in his paranoid imagination.
"We got a report that your vehicle might have been at the scene of a crime earlier this week. We can check that out easily enough. We'd just like to take a look at your car."
The skinny guy considered that for a moment, knuckles of one hand unconsciously riding up and down scruffy whiskers. "Please don't misunderstand. I support you guys, but I know my rights. I'm a real bug about procedure. You need a warrant."
Brass withdrew the warrant from his inside coat pocket and handed the papers forward. "Here you go."
Eyes wide, horrified, Hamilton leaned back like he expected Brass to slap him with the papers. "I didn't mean you had to have a warrant! I'm happy to cooperate. I just wanted you to know I was familiar with my rights. I can waive that warrant."
"Why don't you take it. Look it over."
"All right." He grinned nervously. "It's just that…well…it's early, I'm sorry. I still have a NyQuil hang-over-that stuff puts me out! Hey, I know you have a tough job and I want to help. You just surprised me."
"Fine," Brass said.
Hamilton studied the document for a long moment, then, taking a step toward the back of the house, said, "It's this way. What makes you think it's my car? At this crime scene of yours?"
Warrick said, "The car spotted at the scene had a broken right taillight."
Hamilton stopped and the three of them nearly piled into him. Turning back, he said with a frown, "Well, then you're wasting your time."
Sara asked, "Why is that, Mr. Hamilton?"
He shrugged. "I don't have a broken taillight."
"We need to check," Brass said. "Procedure."
With a little nod, Hamilton turned back toward the rear of the house.
"So you guys are CSIs?" Hamilton said to Warrick.
"That's right."
"That must be an exciting job."
"It has its moments."
To Sara, Hamilton said, "Meet some real oddballs, I bet!"
"Now and then."
When their host got to the kitchen, he turned left and opened a door that led into darkness. Pushing open a screen door, he flipped a light switch and the two-car garage was bathed in light.
The '98 white Monte Carlo sat directly in the middle. On this side of the car, a heavy punching bag was chained to the crossbeam of the ceiling. Next to it hunkered a weight bench, with a barbell on the rack supporting about the same amount Sara could bench-press.
Hamilton led them to the back of the car and looked down at the taillight.
"What the hell!" Hamilton blurted, his head tilting to one side, as he tried to comprehend the broken light on the right rear fender of his car.
Actually, the taillight was mostly intact, a small piece broken out near the bottom, as if something had smacked against it and cracked off a piece, like Candace Lewis's body maybe.
After setting his crime scene kit on the concrete floor with a clunk, Warrick opened it and fished out the evidence bag with the piece of red plastic inside.
"What's that?" Hamilton asked, hovering, his voice unsteady.
Sara said, "Piece of a taillight found at our crime scene. We just need to see if it fits the break in yours."
Hamilton looked pale as death, and Sara didn't think it was the man's cold. He shuffled back, out of the way, as if every bad thing in his past, real or imagined, had caught up with.
Taking the piece out of the bag, Warrick fitted it into the hole in the Monte's taillight.
From the sidelines, Hamilton said, "It fits perfectly!"
"Yeah," Warrick said, dryly.
"What's it mean?"
Brass showed their host the hint of a smile. "It means, Mr. Hamilton, you're going to be answering a lot more questions and these criminalists will be searching both your house and the car."
Hamilton seemed to crumple in on himself; Sara wondered if the man was about to faint.
Then he hauled himself up straight and said, "I haven't done anything. You're welcome to search all you want-you don't have to go out and get another warrant for my house or anything. But there's nothing to find."
Warrick gestured toward the broken tail. "You don't remember doing this?"
"No. Unless…" His eyes flared; paranoia danced in them. "Maybe somebody's trying to frame me!"
"Frame you for what, Mr. Hamilton?" Brass asked pleasantly. "Why don't we let our CSIs work their magic, while you and I go have a talk."
"All right. I'm here to cooperate. I hope I've made that clear."
"Crystal."
Sara and Warrick rolled their eyes at each other and got to it: she took the car, he took the garage.
After an hour in the trunk, she had found no blood, no fibers, no hair, no leftover adhesive from the duct tape, no anything. She climbed out, perspiration matting her hair to her forehead and the back of her neck.
"This is the wrong car, Warrick," she said, matter of factly. "There's never been a body in this trunk."
"You're sure?" he asked, crossing from the workbench on the far side of where she stood. "Guy's a law enforcement freak. Maybe he cleaned it."