You Can't Stop Me. Max Allan Collins
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the show?”
Her half smile added up to a whole smirk. “Right, I’m gonna watch some jive-ass reality show, after I been out on the street all day and all night, busting bad guys in the flesh.”
“Oh…well…I can under—”
“J.C.!” Her laugher was sharp, little knife jabs of glee. “You can’t tell when I’m playin’ you? There is not a week goes by when I don’t time-delay your ass. Me skipping commercials doesn’t offend you, does it?”
Now he laughed, embarrassed. “No. Not at all. Did you, uh…catch the show the other night?”
“Yeah, I saw it. This is how they do the ratings now? Send the star door to door?”
He leaned in. “Now I know you’re playing me, because, if you did see that show, you must already know why I’m here.” He locked eyes with her, and nothing jokey remained in her expression. “Laurene, I need a second-in-command. A second I can trust not to bullshit me, and let me know when I’m out of line.”
She sipped Diet Coke through a straw; her eyes were not on his now. She was thinking.
“You know what I’m asking, Laurene.”
She sighed. Shrugged. “J.C., I have a job. A job I haven’t been back to for long, and probably shouldn’t risk.”
“I don’t want you to risk anything, Laurene. But with your background and abilities, you could work anywhere. You’re damned good at what you do. But you are also underappreciated and underpaid.”
“It’s ’cause I’m a local girl. But I like helping out where I grew up.”
“I’m not asking you to leave Waco forever. But I am offering you a raise.”
She stretched her arm across the table and put a finger to his lips. “I’m not worried about the money, Handsome. Long as there’s health. I learned the hard way what happens when you don’t have that kinda coverage.”
“UBC treats its people well, far as perks go. They have a deserved rep for underpaying the help, but I will set your salary.”
“Suppose I don’t care about coming back to Waco.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, does this gig have legs? Will it last past this one case?”
Harrow shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose if we’re successful, anything is possible. But with the TV exposure you’ll have, a lot of new possibilities are going to open up.”
“Right. Maybe I’ll star in Foxy Brown Part Two.”
He laughed. “Hey, I would pay to see that.”
She laughed too, then got very silent, wheels turning.
Finally, she said, “If I can wrangle a leave of absence, you’ll guarantee good PR for the Waco PD? Give them some kind of love on the air?”
“Hell,” Harrow said, “I can probably get them a screen thank you in the credits every week.”
This was the kind of request Dennis Byrnes would love—the kind that didn’t cost a damn thing.
She thought a while longer. Then: “All right, Sweet Talker. I’ll hit up my boss. If they don’t put up too big a fuss, I’ll do it. What are we talking, nine months?”
“That’s the maximum, unless we decide to take this concept onto a second case. But I’m not thinking in those terms, Laurene. This isn’t about televison, not really.”
Quietly she said, “I know what it’s about.”
“Thanks, Laurene,” Harrow said. “You’re a lifesaver.”
Laurene smiled and shook her head. “You want saved, you saw where the church was…. Notice you didn’t come in. Let me guess—last time you set foot in church was at the funeral. Right?”
“God and I,” Harrow said, “are not on speaking terms.”
“I been there. But God didn’t do this.”
“He didn’t prevent it.”
“No. No. But it was some sick monster that did this, J.C. And we need to find him, so he doesn’t do it to anybody else.”
“Amen,” Harrow said.
From his hotel room in Oklahoma City, Harrow called Michael Pall. The scientist seemed pleased to hear from the lawman turned TV star, and agreed to meet him in the hotel bar for a drink later that evening.
Harrow was already seated in a leatherette booth when Pall came in around seven. Only five-six, the middle-aged Pall was no Superman, but did resemble an aging Clark Kent with his black-frame glasses and thick comma of dark, dangling hair.
Then Harrow shook hands with the guy, and began to wonder if Pall—however short he might be—might be Superman, at that. He had a vice-like grip, and Harrow used a ploy taught to him by another cop buddy back in rookie days. When confronted with a death-grip hand-shaker, the cop had told Harrow, just extend your forefinger. This made it impossible for the other man to crush your hand. Harrow didn’t know all the physics of it, but damned if it didn’t work.
“Damn, it’s good to see you, J.C.—how long’s it been?”
“Something like ten years.”
“So why do you look just the same?”
“It’s a good thing Oklahoma pays you to go after the truth, Michael—’cause you don’t lie for shit.”
“Isn’t that, J.C.—I just don’t have much imagination. Just the facts, ma’am, like they used to say on Dragnet.”
“Watch it, buddy—you’re betraying both our ages.”
They smiled and got settled into the booth.
Though Pall said little, his résumé spoke volumes. For one thing, he’d been part of the team that brought peace to families by identifying victims in the 1995 bombing of the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City. And, although it never played into the trial, he also had developed evidence that implicated Timothy McVeigh. He was slightly older than Harrow.
They ordered drinks and made small talk for a few minutes. Finally Pall asked, “Are you gonna tell me why?”
“Why what?” Harrow asked.
Pall looked at Harrow over the top of his glasses.
Harrow said, “You know about the show.”
“I live in Oklahoma, J.C., not a cave.”
“You follow it?”
“I saw Friday’s episode. You think it’s a good idea, J.C., investigating something so close to you?”
“It’s a good idea if I surround myself with the right people.”
“Have you eaten? I could eat.”
Pall called a waiter over and ordered salad, steamed vegetables, and a small rare filet.
Harrow said, “Make it two.”
When the waiter was gone, Harrow said, “Michael…” No one called Pall “Mike” that Harrow knew of. “…have you thought about retirement?”
Pall studied Harrow. “And here I thought you came to offer me a job.”
“You’ve got your time in, and qualify for a full pension. You’re single, at least as far as I know, which means you’d be free to travel. I’m here to offer you a chance to do a little moonlighting.”
“How many months you guaranteeing?”
“Nine. But it will mean more money than two full years at your current job. And there’s a possibility—just a possibility—that