“Okay. And-thanks, Kit.”
“See you soon.”
Spooky came back out just as he ended the call. “Who was that?”
“A friend. Are you ready to go?”
“Yeah, I’m starving. What friend?”
“Someone you’ll meet soon. Let’s go.”
“A woman?”
He sighed. “Yes.”
“Who is she?”
“An old friend.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“We’ve just had this conversation, haven’t we?”
She shrugged and looked away. They walked out to the Suburban in silence. He kept a hand on the phone, still warm from being held during the conversation. His fingertips touched the rabbit’s foot. He thought of how much he liked the sound of Meghan’s voice.
And now he would see her in person for the first time since he graduated from high school.
The rabbit’s foot did not prevent him from being assailed by doubts.
“I wish you were gay,” Spooky said.
11
Sheriff’s Department Headquarters
Monterey Park, California
Monday, May 19, 5:40 P.M.
Alex watched as Sheriff James Dwyer, a consummate politician, deftly avoided directly answering questions about FBI involvement in the cases, managing to turn every inquiry into an opportunity to talk about the capabilities of his own department. Tall, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and smooth-spoken, he was in his element, while Alex felt distinctly out of his own.
Before today, the only time Alex had done more than shake hands with Dwyer was at J.D.’s funeral, when Dwyer had offered brief condolences. Alex had never expected more. Over sixteen thousand people worked for the L.A. County Sheriff’s Department, and almost ten thousand of those were sworn officers. Between its detectives and the man at the top, there were several levels of command. Contrary to the image of the lone cowboy with a tin star that the word “sheriff” sometimes evoked, the L.A. County Sheriff was the chief administrator of a law enforcement agency that was the principal police force in forty-one cities, staffed nine county jails, provided security for the courts, and much more. Dwyer didn’t have time to shoot the breeze with one homicide detective.
On Alex’s few previous high-profile cases, J.D. had been the one to go to headquarters with Nelson to brief the sheriff. Dwyer spent a few minutes talking about J.D. today, making an effort to put Alex at ease. Some of that might have been the irrepressible campaigner at work, but Alex had also been struck by how quickly the sheriff absorbed the basic facts of the cases, how many details he had wanted to know.
“I understand you’re trying to get Shay Wilder to take a look at these cases,” Dwyer had said.
“Yes, sir.”
Dwyer had smiled. “Good luck. If the stubborn old cuss will let you in his front door, give him my regards.”
Now, at the end of the press conference, Alex realized how well Sheriff Dwyer and Captain Nelson had anticipated what the sheriff would be asked by the press. Just before the follow-up questions became too probing, Dwyer said, “That’s all we have for you now, ladies and gentlemen.”
Alex heard but ignored the repeated cries of his name from members of the press.
“Detective Brandon! The FBI must surely have more background on these cases-when will they be called in to investigate?”
“Detective Brandon! Can you tell us if the couple who found the bodies on Catalina are suspects at this point in time?”
Picturing the mild-mannered, elderly couple, who had been thoroughly unnerved by their discovery, Alex wanted to laugh at that one. But he kept his face straight and his mouth closed.
Nelson, no fool, had already made his way off the platform and out of the room. Alex tried to follow.
“Detective Brandon!” Diana Ontora, from Channel Three News, moved in front of him as he descended the platform steps. “Whoever’s doing this-aren’t they really heroes?”
She thrust the microphone so fiercely into his face, he thought she might have been trying to give him a bloody nose.
“No, they’re not heroes,” he answered, then tried to move by.
She blocked him again and said, “But they’ve stopped three killers-killers the country’s top cops couldn’t catch-right?”
“They’ve committed three murders.”
“Technically, yes,” she said, still not budging. “But really, they’ve rid the country of three of its worst criminals, and all without costing taxpayers a dime. Aren’t they making this department and every other law enforcement organization in America look bad? Aren’t you a little afraid of the competition?”
“This isn’t a game,” he said and moved around her.
“They killed a man who brutally murdered a family of four, including one of your witnesses,” she shouted after him. “Don’t you wish they had killed him sooner?”
He kept walking.
Alex was due over at the studios where Crimesolvers USA was taped. The producer, Ty Serault, had a reputation of going out of his way to be cooperative with law enforcement-not surprising, given the nature of his program-and had agreed to talk about the staff who had worked on the show on the nights when the segments about Valerie Perry and Harold Denihan aired. When Ciara, who was already headed back to Catalina, heard this, she had asked Alex if he had promised to take the guy for a ride with the sirens on.
“He’s not a wannabe, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s just trying to help out-and you have to admit, the show helps.”
She shrugged. “I’m sure hanging out with Hollywood types is more interesting than going over rental receipts on Catalina.”
“Not necessarily,” he said, and she laughed.
Now, as he drove to Santa Monica in his department-issued Taurus, he wondered if a new vigilantism was about to rear its ugly head. A show like Crimesolvers USA did its best to encourage the public to leave the actual apprehension of criminals to professionals, to stay clear of suspects and simply call the police with information. But he didn’t expect that sort of wisdom to prevail as word of these cases spread.
From the outside, the studio where Crimesolvers USA was produced looked like any other industrial building. A set of large satellite dishes perched on the roof was the only indication that it might be something other than a warehouse. No sign indicated that this was the home of Serault Productions. He pulled up to the wrought-iron fence that surrounded it and pushed a button on the intercom. He identified himself and said, “I’m here to meet Mr. Serault.”
A young woman’s voice said, “Okay, park in any space marked ‘visitor.’” The gate opened. Alex looked around but didn’t see a camera. For a guy who produced a show about criminals, Alex thought, Ty Serault didn’t seem to have spent much on security. He parked and looked around the lot. There was a new silver Lexus in the space marked T. Serault. The other cars in employee spaces included four Japanese compacts, four American-made
