Jan Burke - Nine

“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…”