Макс Коллинз - No One Will Hear You

She asked Rue, “You lifted footprints from in front of the control box yet?”

“Nope.”

“Well, do that, then let’s have a look at that box. My guess is our killer got into it somehow. He had to defeat the camera and the motion detector.”

Rue nodded, and was gone.

Amari said, “All right, Mr. Wyler, spell out a typical night for me.”

Wyler smiled at the thought of helping his fellow pros. “I come on at eleven. I’m here by eleven thirty, then pretty much every hour and a half or so after that. Usually, around one, two-thirty, four, five-thirty, then one last pass on my way back to the barn at seven.”

“Earlier, you told us you were here between five and five-thirty.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right. Maybe twenty after or so. I was a little early, but not much.”

“You noticed the tire tracks on your five-thirty trip,” Amari said. “Is it possible you missed them earlier?”

Wyler considered that. “No, I don’t think so, really don’t. Tracks in the dust on the blacktop? That’s something I look for every time I’m up top. I would have seen ‘em if they were here before that.”

“That means the killer was here between four and five-thirty.”

“Had to be,” Wyler said, nodding.

To Polk, Amari said, “Which tells us she was dead before that — bled out, cleaned up, ready for display. Killer drove her here in his car.”

“Risky,” Polk said.

“But if the killer knew he had ninety minutes and had cased the area, he could minimize the risk.”

From the control box, Rue gave them a wave.

“All right,” Amari said. “Which key is it?”

Wyler took the ring off his belt and handed it to her by the box key.

As they walked back down the path to the box, Polk said, “Killer opened it, did whatever he did, then locked it up again.”

“Yeah,” Amari said, “and we want to see what he did.”

Polk put a hand on her forearm and stopped her. “What if he booby-trapped the frickin’ thing?”

She thought about that.

“Why lock it back up,” Polk insisted, “if it’s not booby-trapped?”

“To slow us down?”

“Right. And what would slow us down more than it blowing up in our damn faces?”

“Shit,” she said.

Polk was right.

They conferred with Marty Rue and, in the end, did the smart thing.

Called the bomb squad.

The network president wore his dark hair clipped close, his lightweight gray suit no more expensive than Harrow’s first car. He was smiling, but the gray-green eyes were cold stones in the well-tanned, conventionally handsome face.

Dennis Byrnes said, “Let’s get right to it, shall we, J.C.? With the ratings Crime Seen’s enjoyed, you are right to expect certain rewards. Including a raise.”

Seated opposite the network president, Harrow said, “I’ve had another offer.”

Byrnes raised a hand. “I’m sure you have, J.C. You were bound to. Assembling your forensics team, taking them on the road, that was smart showmanship. Plus you got lucky, and some great television happened. The kind that will be written about and studied for years. So I don’t play down your contribution.”

“Dennis...”

“Now, J.C., I’m being straight up with you. But despite all this success, you know what kind of economy we’re facing, and your road trip was extremely expensive. So I don’t want you to be offended if the increase seems unduly modest, and—”

“I said, I’ve had another offer.”

“J.C., don’t be ridiculous. You know your contract includes an iron-clad non-compete clause.”

“Not quite iron-clad, Dennis.”

“... Explain.”

“The non-compete clause applies only to other offers in broadcasting.”

“Actually, J.C., it’s more than just broadcasting — you do know it includes cable.”

“All of television, sure.”

“And radio, and really anything in media. Throughout the universe, if I remember the language.”

“It’s not a job on Mars, Dennis, that I promise you.”

“Where then?”

“Iowa.”

Byrnes frowned, as if Harrow had said Mars. “That’s where you used to work.”

“Right. In law enforcement.”

Byrnes had a flummoxed look. “Well, J.C., regional, local broadcasting, that’s covered by non-compete, too.”

“I’m aware.”

“Who’s made you an offer, anyway?”

“You don’t know them.”

“And it’s not television?”

Harrow gave him a single head shake.

“How much is the offer, then?”

“Twenty-seven five.”

Byrnes erupted in something that was vaguely a laugh. “You’re making seventy-five thousand per show, J.C. And I’m about to offer you one hundred.”

“Not talking about weekly salary.”

“What... what are you talking about?”

“The offer is per year.”

Byrnes frowned in incredulity. “Twenty-seven thousand five-hundred a year?”

“Plus certain perks. Three weeks’ paid vacation. Medical and dental.”

“That doesn’t sound like work. That sounds like welfare. What the hell kind of job pays twenty-seven thousand a year?”

“Twenty-seven-thousand five. Police chief of Walcott, Iowa.”

“There’s no such place!” Byrnes grinned in desperation. “You’re punking me, right? Is that brat Ashton Kutcher in the hall?”

“No, but he’s from Iowa, too. He’d know Walcott’s a real place. If I stay five years, I climb to thirty-three thousand and change.”

Byrnes was a man trying to awaken from a bad dream. “Small-town police chief. You want to trade it all for small-town police chief. Who the hell quits a hit show without something better already lined up?”

“This is better, Dennis. Better for me. Look, I know we’re a success. I know we’ve done a good job. But surely this can’t be that big a surprise.”

“Really?”

“Dennis, when I took this gig, I told you it wasn’t about the money.”

“You also wouldn’t have called it a ‘gig’! J.C., you’re a show-biz guy now, like it or not. You really think it will be so goddamn easy going back?”

Harrow shrugged. “Whether there’s a life back there for me, after what I lost, I don’t honestly know... but I need to find out.”

Byrnes’s eyebrows lifted. “Find out after doing a third season for us. I know you took satisfaction, during season one, helping bring all those bad guys to justice.”

“I know we did some good...”

“You did a lot of good, J.C. We did a lot of good. You can contribute more here than being a Podunk lawman, no offense. You want to go back to Iowa? Why not spend another year here first, socking big dough away for your golden years — you’re no spring chicken, after all... particularly for a TV star.”

That actually made Harrow smile.

“J.C., give me one more year, and I’ll have time to properly replace you for season four... unless you change your mind and want to stay on.”

Harrow shook his head. “Dennis, it’s not just me — my Killer TV team is ready to get back to their lives, too.”

“Unacceptable,” Byrnes said, with what a stranger might have mistaken for a smile.

Harrow knew better. “Pardon?”

“The network holds an option on all your contracts for next season. We intend to pick up those options.”

“Suppose we went public with our unhappiness,” Harrow said. “Suppose I went on strike.”

“I don’t think you will, J.C.”

“And why not, Dennis?”

“Because you owe me.”