Jan Burke - Nine

“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?”