shield. The bearded man in the sport coat and jeans who came out of the double glass doors to meet them introduced himself as the line producer, which meant that Jim Steele’s purview was the show’s physical production, including hiring the camera crew. He asked if there had been some neighborhood complaint about damage or noise from their location shooting and relaxed measurably when she told him no.
“I just want to ask you a few questions about one of your former crew. Alan Barclay.”
Steele closed his eyes momentarily and told her that the whole crew was still mourning him. “If you lead a good life, if you’re fortunate enough, you get a chance to work with a guy like Alan. A lovely man. Very giving and an artist with that camera. Total pro.”
Nikki said, “His name has come up related to a case we are investigating, and I’m really looking for some background on him.”
“Not a lot to tell. He’s been with me here since I hired him freelance on Don’t Forget to Duck.”
“Great effing show,” said Rook.
The producer browsed him warily then continued, “That would have been 2005. Alan was so gifted I brought him onto Playback when we got our syndication order.”
“What about before that,” asked Heat, “had he worked another show?”
“No, in fact, he was sort of a risky hire for me because his background was news shooting.”
Rook said, “Network or local stations?”
“Neither. He’d been a rover for one of the stringer companies that provide video footage to local stations that cut back on budgets. You know, stations can’t justify the union crews to wait around on the overnight shift to shoot the occasional car accidents and robberies, so instead, they buy clips from the stringers on an as-needed basis.”
“Do you know offhand who Alan Barclay worked for?” asked Heat.
“Gotham Outsource.” Steele’s smart phone buzzed and he checked the screen. “Listen, I’ve got to get back in there. Do you have all you need?”
“Sure do. Thanks,” she said.
Before he left, the producer said, “Mind if I ask you a question? Do you guys ever compare notes?”
Nikki said, “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“One of your detectives was here a little over a week ago asking the same questions.”
The assignment manager of Gotham Outsource had the cranky de meanor of a taxi dispatcher. He half- swiveled from his computer monitor and, over the chatter and electronic noise of a few dozen scanners, said, “I already covered all this with your other suit a week, ten days ago, you know.”
“Captain Montrose, right?”
“Yeah, same dude who ten-eightied himself,” he said, using the police radio code for “Cancel.”
Heat wanted to slap him hard enough for his headset to embed itself in his pea brain. Rook either sensed or shared her distaste and interceded. “Cover it again, it’ll take you two minutes. How long did Alan Barclay work for you?”
“Started in 2001. We doubled our crews after 9/11, and he was part of the big hire.”
“And you were happy with him?” asked Nikki, past her anger for the moment.
“I was until I wasn’t.”
She said, “Help me out there.”
“Guy ended up being my best shooter. Great shots, hard worker, not afraid to get close to the action. Then he just flakes out on me. Adios. Doesn’t even come in to quit or say kiss my royal red hinder. Just stops showing.” He sucked his teeth. “Freelancers. These lowlifes are one rung above paparazzi.”
Heat couldn’t wait to get some distance from this goon, but she had one more thing to find out. “Do you remember the date he quit so suddenly?”
He gestured with both arms to the roomful of police radios and TV monitors. “Do I look like I’d remember the date?”
“Try,” said Rook.
The man scoffed. “You’re no cop. Not wearing a fancy watch like that. You got nothing over me.”
Rook brushed past Nikki, ripped the headset off the guy, and spun his chair so he was nose-to-nose with him. “Hey, Ed Murrow, what would it cost your business if I called in a safety tip and some city inspections of your fleet of news vans stopped you from prowling for a night or three?” He paused. “I thought so.” Then Rook wrote his phone number down and stuffed it in the man’s shirt pocket. “Start remembering.”
When Horst Meuller woke up from his nap, he gasped. Rook was lean ing over his hospital bed holding a very large syringe in the German’s face. “Don’t worry, Herr Meuller,” he said in a soft voice, “I won’t hurt you.” Yet he didn’t move away, either. “But do you see how very easy it would be for someone else to kill you while you slept?” Rook gently swung the hypodermic back and forth; Meuller’s eyes followed it, big and wide like a cat clock. “You’re in a hospital, so there are so many ways. I’ve heard of contract killers who dress like nurses and inject poison into the IV drip of their victims.” Meuller felt around for the call button, and Rook smiled and held it up with his other hand. “To live, press one now.”
Horst’s face wore a sheen of perspiration. Heat tapped Rook on the shoulder and said, “I think he got the message.”
“True. No need to beat a dead… Oh, I want to say ‘Horst’ so bad. But it would be beneath even me.”
“What are you trying to do?” asked Meuller.
Nikki pulled a chair bedside. “To get you to see that if you don’t help us catch whoever you’re so afraid of, I can’t protect you from them. Nobody can. You will never be safe. Anywhere.” She waited, watching him process. “So you have a choice. Wait for them to come or help me get them before they get you.”
Meuller’s eyes went from her to Rook, who stood behind Heat. He held up the syringe and winked. “All right,” sighed the German. “Very well.”
Out came the notebook. Heat said, “Who shot you?”
“I don’t know, honestly.”
“Was it the same people who tortured you?”
He pursed his lips. “I didn’t see who shot me, and the others wore ski masks.”
“How many were there?”
“Two. Two men.”
“Why, Horst? What’s this about?”
“Whoever it is wants something. Something they think I have, but I don’t. Honestly, I don’t.”
She looked at his pleading eyes and believed him. For now. “Let’s talk about what it is they want.” He retreated into himself, and so she prompted him. “It has something to do with your boyfriend, doesn’t it? With Alan?” When Nikki saw the dramatic change of expression, she was glad she’d waited to confront him until they had done some legwork.
“ Ja, that is right.”
“And what is it, Horst?” When he hesitated, she helped him along. She wanted to keep it moving while he was in the mood and also recognized he was in recovery from his wound and would fatigue shortly. “Is it money?” He shook no. “But it is something valuable.” He nodded. Nikki got tiny head shakes for each item on her list: jewels, art, drugs. Then she arrived where she wanted to land. “It’s a video, isn’t it?”
He stirred and Heat knew she had been right. It made sense to her that something from Alan, a videographer, would be a fungible item, quite valuable to someone, depending what was on it. “Tell me what’s on the video, Horst.”
“You must believe me, I do not know. Alan would not tell me for the reasons we have seen. He said it was too dangerous for me to know. That is why he kept it secret all these years. He said people would kill to get it. And now…” His mouth was dry and Nikki held out the water cup so he could sip from the straw.
Heat asked, “Did someone kill Alan, is that how he died?”
“No, he had a bad heart. From birth defect. A few weeks ago he had an episode and had to be put in the hospital.”
Nikki made a note. “And this episode, was there a cause for it?”
Something came over him. Acceptance? No, Heat had seen it in interrogation many times before. It was resignation. “You are going to make me tell it all, aren’t you?” When she just waited, Meuller’s eyes closed and opened. “OK. Yes, there was an inquiry made by a police detective. His name is Montrose.”
