Nine

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 SUVs, and a lime-green VW Bug as the tiebreaker.

Serault was a block of a man, big and square-shouldered, with a square head to match, dark hair buzzed down to a shadow over his skull. He had a prize-fighter’s face, and a low voice that held traces of his native Louisiana. His dark brown eyes had a spark of humor in them, and Alex knew from talking to others in the department that Serault had brains to match his brawn.

He ushered Alex into an office lined with commendations from law enforcement agencies. “Quite a press conference you just came out of, there. Ontora ended up looking worse than you did, but she’ll want to even the score in the next round.”

“With any luck, the PIO will handle that one.”

Serault smiled. “If he doesn’t, at least you’ve learned you ought to leave the platform in the middle of the herd. Stragglers get cut out.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. In the past I’ve found reporters waiting at my car, though, so I’m not sure I’m going to be able to escape.”

“For a while now, probably not. You’ve got a hell of a mess on your hands, don’t you?”

“Not many people will understand that, I’m afraid. They won’t mind hearing that someone has killed these three.”

“No, probably not. You think someone on my staff might be helping your vigilantes?”

“Just following every lead I can.”

“Hmm.” Serault pulled a desk drawer open and removed a small stack of files. “I hope you’re wrong, but I can see that it’s a possibility. Whoever captured these three criminals had information about them that no law enforcement agency in the country was able to turn up. I don’t mean to imply any lack of effort on the part of law enforcement-we both know that you can’t be focusing on the FBI’s list all of the time. How many murders a year do you-the sheriff’s department-investigate?”

“Last year, a little under three hundred. So far, this year has seen a slight increase, but not by much.”

“Almost one a day-provided no gang wars break out.”

“Gang violence is a factor, yes.”

“My, my. No wonder. And except for the cities like L.A. that have their own departments, y’all have the whole county to cover, right? Calabasas to San Dimas, Catalina to Palmdale-what is that, about four thousand square miles?”

Alex smiled. “Sheriff’s department Web site?”

Serault laughed. “That was kind of clumsy of me, wasn’t it? Should have made you wait and come around tomorrow, when I’d have my act worked out.”

“You didn’t need to go to the trouble, Mr. Serault.”

“I want you to know that I’m on your side, Detective Brandon. That’s all. But actions speak louder than words.” He handed the folders over to Alex. “The shows including the segments on Valerie Perry and Harold Denihan aired at different times, and the staff on the phones varied a little. What you have is a list of employees, and if they no longer work here, I’ve given you the most recent contact information we have for them. We don’t have much turnover in our production staff, but answering phones is entry level, sort of an intern’s job, although we screen them better than most places would.”

“Are they students, then?”

“Some are. They’re mostly young people. They aren’t looking to make a career out of answering phones. They just like being connected with a television show. Once the novelty of that wears off…”

“I understand.” Alex glanced at the files and noticed they included not only former staff members’ names, addresses, and phone numbers, but also their hire dates and dates of employment. There were even copies of applications and employee ID photos. “Thanks. I appreciate the effort that went into this.”

He laughed. “Oh, one of my assistants did that. I was screwing around on the Internet, remember?”

“Nevertheless, I know your staff is busy, and it was good of you to have someone take the time to put this together.”

“All I ask is that you keep this information confidential-I value your work, but my staff values its privacy.”

“Of course.”

Alex looked at the lists again and said, “You have the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Department and the Phoenix police on here…”

“When we air a show, basically, it’s a tape, but we have a live studio segment, when we ask people to call. When that’s going on, we have law enforcement officers from concerned agencies in the studio. So we had officers from Arizona on Perry’s night, and Kentucky for Denihan’s night. When reruns air, we don’t usually have as many people taking calls.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get to a meeting, so I’m going to hand you over to Nola. She’ll meet you in the reception area. She hires and trains all the phone staff, so I figured she’d be the most help to you.”

Alex thanked him again and stood. He was nearly at the door when Serault said, “One other thing, Detective Brandon.”

What was it going to be? Alex wondered, as he turned back toward Serault, who was suddenly looking uneasy. Alex had not forgotten that Serault was, when all was said and done, a member of the media, and half-expected some request to be involved in the investigation, or special access to information, or coverage of the investigation when it was over.

“I don’t want you to take this wrong,” Serault said.

Alex waited.

“This program, it’s all about law and order-real law and order. In the last five years, we’ve covered all kinds of investigations and helped in any way we could to bring criminals to justice. So-so perhaps you can see that I’d hate to have any damage done to our reputation. I’m trying to cooperate here, and I hope you can appreciate the fact that I really didn’t have to give you any information.”

“I’m not so sure that’s true, Mr. Serault, but-”

“All right, let’s just say, I’m giving you information without making you waste the time it would take to get a court order or making you fool with my attorneys.”

Mildly annoyed that Serault might be trying to bargain with him, he said, “You’ve certainly been helpful so far. But-”

Serault held up his oversized hands, meaty fingers spread. “I’m not going to get in your way, believe me. But I don’t want this program to have any association with vigilantism or-or downright murder and kidnapping. Not if I can help it. If we let someone like that in here, then no one is more sorry than I am for it. I’m just asking you to let the public know that if somehow we did make a mistake, that you’ll let them know Crimesolvers did all it could to help you catch that person.”

“I’m sure the department wouldn’t hesitate to acknowledge your help.”

Serault gave a sigh of relief and slumped back in his chair. Alex left him sitting there and went out to the reception area.

While he waited for Nola Phillips, Alex looked over the files. He noted that only three people who no longer worked for the company had worked on both segments, only four more had worked on both segments and still worked there.

“Detective Brandon?”

He looked up from the paperwork to see a petite blonde approaching him. Her short hair was styled into spiky tufts and peaks; her pale complexion was enlivened by a slash of bright pink lipstick and a small silver nose ring; her large blue eyes were slightly magnified by the black-rimmed rectangular lenses of her glasses. He wondered if the glasses were supposed to be a somber note. She wore a skintight lime-green blouse, black leather pants, and black Charles David stiletto heels.

“The Volkswagen,” he said, and she laughed.

“How’d you guess?”

“The blouse,” he lied, and liked the impish, doubting look she returned.

“I’m Nola.” She glanced at the receptionist and added, “Let’s talk in my office.”

Her office was a windowless cubicle at the end of a hallway, past the closed metal doors of the studio. The room would have been completely dark, but she had plastered most of its surfaces with glow-in-the-dark stickers shaped as stars, planets, dinosaurs, and insects. “They keep me from bumping into the furniture while I find the switch,” she said as she made her way across the room to the desk. She snapped on a desk lamp, and the room was made only slightly more officelike. She gestured toward a pair of beanbag chairs, but knowing they weren’t made for the comfort of those who wore weapons, he opted for a more traditional office chair. She seemed disappointed but took the chair behind the desk, then propped her feet up on it. She held out her hand and said, “Gimme.”

“I wish I didn’t know you meant the folders,” he said, handing them to her, and she laughed again. He liked the laugh, too-a laugh with meat on its bones. Watching her look of intense concentration as she studied the files, he doubted Nola Phillips had giggled since she was five. Which, he reminded himself, was probably not all that long ago.

“I saw the press conference,” she said. “You’re looking for someone in these files who could be a killer?”

“Not necessarily. Could be someone who accepted a payment for information. And your staff person might not have known the real reason the other party wanted the information.”

He moved closer to the desk and pointed out the names of the seven who had worked on both shows. He started with the ones who were still employed by the company, then moved to the ones that had left. As he went through the list, she offered reactions: “No, not in a million years. Wouldn’t catch him jaywalking… No, she’s one of those people who would confess immediately if she did… Doesn’t have the nerve… Doesn’t have the imagination.”

A former employee, Dwight Neuly, was working on a “creepy student film.” Alex made a note to talk to him. She had moved on to the next name.

“Eric? Hmm. Really sophisticated one moment, goofy kid the next. He worked really hard, but he was also a clown. But he seemed, like, I don’t know, really harmless.”

“Harmless?” Alex took the folders back and stood. “Maybe he just didn’t know what he was up against.”

She smiled. “Is your day just starting?”

“Oh no. But the hours are hard to predict. What about you?”

“I’ve only been in since two o’clock, so I’m around for a while. Ty is easygoing about hours, so long as you’re here when he needs you during the production season and you get your work done in other times. One of the reasons I like working here.”

“Any of the people in this file going to be here this evening?”

“No, sorry. They only come in on the night the show airs-Thursday. Want to come back then?”

“If I need to, yes. Will that be okay with your boss?”

“Sure. He loves having real cops around here.”

“Tell him to open an all-night coffee shop.”

“Not a doughnut shop?”

“And here I thought you’d avoid the stereotype.”

“Sorry.” She openly assessed him. “I take it back. You have definitely not been sitting around eating doughnuts.”

“Maybe I work out so that I can. But that reminds me-any of these seven people involved in sports of any kind?”

“I don’t know. Eric was in good shape, so was Dwight.”

“Okay. Thanks for the help. I’ll start by seeing if I can run down Creepy Dwight and Harmless Eric.”

“Don’t tell them I said that!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“What do you dream of?”

“Pardon?”

“Your dreams. Dreams interest me. I do dream interpretation.”

Not being a believer in such things, he found himself wishing he had left five minutes earlier, before she said this, but he could see the earnestness with which she asked, so he decided to play along. His dreams of the last few nights had been unpleasant surreal versions of crime scenes, and he wasn’t going to speak of them to her. So he thought back to the most recent pleasant dream. “I dream of cliffs.”

“Oh! Fear and vulnerability.”

He smiled. “Not for everyone. So long, Nola.”

He left her staring after him, the desk lamp light reflecting stars and dinosaurs on her glasses.