First thing Saturday morning, J.C. Harrow was on UBC’s small corporate jet, heading to Waco, Texas.

He hadn’t slept well. On some level, he supposed, he had won, but Byrnes had been right to liken what his host had done last night to hijacking the show and blackmailing the network. Had he gone to the exec with his “catch a serial killer” road-trip concept, Harrow might have been embraced as a visionary…or rejected out of hand.

And he had not been experienced enough in the business of show to calculate the odds. Just going for it, on live television, seemed the best way to acquire the wherewithal to track down the bastard who had stolen Ellen and David’s lives.

So he had stooped to commandeering his own program, and putting the man who’d hired him in a hell of a spot with the network. Now, on the Cessna, he sat with the other three passenger seats unoccupied, the two pilots his only company. He didn’t mind the solitude—it helped him get the bad taste out of his mouth, over how he’d gotten here; and he could study the files of the team he hoped to assemble—hard copy in manila folders, not his laptop. He was no Luddite, but he preferred the Old School approach; he still chose a morning paper over a news website.

When he got to Waco, he learned from his PD contact that Laurene Chase—the best forensics investigator in central Texas and maybe the entire state—was working a crime scene; he would not be able to talk to her until the next day. That was disappointing, but he was okay with it—he was still prepping, and one thing that TV and law enforcement had in common was that solid preparation was key to success.

After a solo dinner, Harrow spent the evening in his room going over the files. The names he was considering were all people he knew personally, professionally, or by reputation. They were not in every case the number-one person in their fields, but all were eminently qualified and, more importantly, were people Harrow felt he could work well with, and trust.

He started with a baker’s dozen files; when he was finished, he had a smaller stack, and began to make a list on a yellow pad.

Laurene Chase was at the top. In descending order came Michael Pall, a DNA scientist with the Oklahoma State Crime Lab; chemist Chris Anderson from Meridian, Mississippi; Billy Choi, a tool mark and firearms examiner from New York; and computer forensics whiz Jenny Blake, Casper, Wyoming.

The taller stack of files had other strong possibilities, and he would not be distraught if he had to return there. In any case, he would have a better chance of making this work with a dependable number two who would keep her head when all about them, especially her emotionally invested boss, might be losing theirs.

The biggest liability would be if he was unable to assemble the right team—and the chemistry between team members was something that could not be predicted. A second major liability was himself—no police department anywhere would dream of assigning a crime scene analyst to investigate the murder of his own family.

He’d already heard from Carmen that this morning’s media outlets were rife with editorials and interviews with experts condemning his participation—on MSNBC, a retired LA detective turned bestselling author said, “I’ve heard of having a fool for a client, but this is ridiculous.”

Beyond any ethical or practical concerns, having such an emotionally involved crime scene analyst on the team was one thing; having that analyst head up the team was another. It could easily be a recipe for disaster…which was why his choice for a second in command was key.

The first name on his list.

Laurene Chase.

 

By mid-morning Sunday, Harrow found himself leaning against a rented Lexus at the far end of the parking lot of Our Savior Baptist Church on the northeast side of Waco. He blew out a ribbon of smoke from his second cigarette. The sun was bright but pleasant, the temperature in the mid-seventies, Harrow enjoying a breeze. Spring in Texas included the scent of flowers Detective Harrow couldn’t identify, though the evidence was pleasing enough.

These days, Harrow was smoking again, but out of a sort of half-assed respect to his late wife, he tried to keep the habit at bay. He wore a navy blue polo, jeans, and black Rockys, the cop shoes he seemed to have worn every day of his adult life.

As the congregation emptied out of the brick church down wide cement stairs, Harrow stubbed the cigarette out under his toe, then stood a little straighter, searching for his friend. This was a mostly African-American congregation, dressed in Sunday best and proud of it, parading past the pastor after a brief exchange, then mingling with other worshipers below a while before slowly dispersing to their cars.

Harrow liked black churches—right now, there were smiles and laughs and loud talk and hugs and backs getting slapped. Predominantly white churches he’d attended since childhood had always seemed stiff and vaguely guilt ridden. And at this kind of church, the women, older ones anyway, wore hats! What the hell ever happened to white women in hats?

Last out was a tall, slim, milk-chocolate woman in a fitted gray business suit and open-collared pink dress shirt under a gray vest. Her long black hair was battened down in tight cornrows, and she wore tiny silver hoop earrings that caught sunlight and glinted. That same sunlight made the woman squint, but her oval, black-framed glasses took up the battle, tinting darker against the brightness. When she glanced toward Harrow, she added a wide smile to her ensemble.

She started toward him, and he met her halfway, next to a silver Toyota Camry that would prove to be hers.

As she neared, her smile turned sly, and she said, “Not too often do we get a real, live TV star out here in the boonies.”

“Waco’s hardly the boonies, Laurene.”

“Maybe not. But I sure didn’t expect to see a Hollywood type like you turning up at a church.”

“Outside a church. Wouldn’t want to risk lightning.” He grinned and extended a hand. “Good to see you. Really good.”

She knocked the hand aside and gave him a big, warm hug. She smelled better than the flowers in the breeze.

“Been too long,” Laurene said. “When was the last time, anyway?”

He thought for a moment. “Probably that IAI conference in Dallas.”

They were both members of the International Association for Identification, an organization made up of some seven thousand forensic investigators, examiners, techs, and analysts worldwide.

“Doesn’t that seem like a lifetime ago,” she said.

“Laurene, I’m sorry about Patty.”

“I know you are. I got your flowers and the card. Meant a lot, J.C.”

Laurene’s life partner, Patty Moore, had passed away not quite a year ago from cervical cancer.

“I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it down here,” Harrow said.

“It’s all right,” she said. “I know you’re a busy guy.”

Harrow glanced around. “Can I take you for Sunday lunch or brunch or something?”

“Sure. And I know just the place.”

They walked two blocks to a Popeye’s Fried Chicken. She knew Harrow was a sucker for the onion rings. They shared a big basket of them and some hot wings and laughed about the prospect that food like this would kill them before some bad guy did. Seated at their little table by a window, the view obscured by restaurant adverts, they wiped off their fingers with paper napkins, and the talk turned serious, as if a switch had been thrown.

“I should have got down here,” he said, hardly able to meet her eyes.

“You didn’t know Patty that well.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What you wrote? On the card? It really did mean a lot, J.C. Hell…” She sighed, and her eyebrows flicked upward. “You understand loss better than most. But you know how it is—you shake it off, and get on with it.”

“You do?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I, uh, checked up on you, kid. I know.”

“You know.”

He nodded. “I know. I know you went back to work less than two months ago.”

“Come on, J.C. I needed time.”

“Time to grieve.”

“Right.”

“I need you to level with me, Laurene.”

“Why?”

“We’ll get to that…if you level.”

Laurene seemed to stare out the window, though she was really looking at a poster advertising buffalo shrimp. “I got to where I could barely get out of bed, J.C. Clinical depression, the medics call it. Damn near lost my job.”

“Funny. I almost lost mine the other day.”

The dark eyes sparkled. “You? How does a TV Guide cover boy almost lose his job?”

“Haven’t you been watching 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 we might keep the team together, if we’re successful.”

“The team? Or the ‘act’? This sounds like show business to me, not law enforcement.”

“You know me better than that, Michael. This will be professional all the way.”

“Who else do you have?”

“My second is lined up—Laurene Chase.”

“Oh. Well. That’s a very good start. Here’s our food!”

They ate.

They had a drink after. They had another drink, and after Pall finished his, he asked, “When do you need an answer?”

“The sooner, the better,” Harrow said. “You’re my first choice in this position—but I have other names I can go to.”

“I’m the first you’ve approached?”

“In this slot, yes. Only other team member signed on is Laurene. We go to work June first.”

“I’ll let you know,” Pall said.

When Harrow left the meeting, he had no idea which way the scientist was leaning. Pall was a lot of things, but easy to read was not one of them.

 

The next stop took Harrow to Shaw and Associates, a commercial crime lab in Meridian, Mississippi. Sixty-five, with white hair and an easygoing smile that spoke of confidence and success, Gerald Shaw had left public life for the private sector over twenty years ago. Now, his crime lab was the most respected of its kind in the nation, if not the world.

After small talk over a cup of coffee, Harrow got to the point and asked for the loan of chemist Chris Anderson.

“Loan?” Shaw asked, arching a black eyebrow that seemed stark next to the white swooping over his forehead.

“We’ll pay him,” Harrow said, holding up a palm. “You can take him off salary and even bennies, while he’s with us.”

“Well, doesn’t that sound like a sweet little deal,” Shaw said genially. “And just who’s gonna cover his workload?”

Harrow had known Shaw was a sharp businessman, and was prepared for the haggling. “We’ll pay for a sub. If you have any expenses lining up a sub, we’ll pay that, too.”

Shaw grinned sleepily. “Well, that does sound a little sweeter. But it’s up to the boy himself. If Chris wants to go, fine—you got yourself a deal.”

Born and raised in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, Chris Anderson had played basketball in high school well enough to make All-State, but not to get a scholarship. His grades, though, had been another matter—exceptional in math and science, Anderson had earned a full ride at the University of Alabama right there in his hometown. He took his first trip north to attend graduate school at the University of California-Berkeley, probably the nation’s best chemistry grad school.

Tall, with blond bangs, Anderson had the playful brown eyes and wide smile of a boy-band singer. Not yet thirty, he was something of a prodigy in the forensics field—Shaw paid the young man double what he could have made in public law enforcement.

After Harrow outlined the plan, Anderson—who had never watched Crime Seen!—turned to Shaw. “Mr. Gerald, how do you feel about this?”

A hand settled on Anderson’s shoulder. “Might be a good idea, Chris. I’ve known J.C. for years. He’s a good man, and it’d get you out of the lab for a while. Some field work would be good experience for you.”

The young man considered that. “And my job would be here when I got back?”

“You bet, son,” Shaw said. “Whenever you want it.”

Turning his fresh face to Harrow, Anderson said, “Well, then, sir—when do I start?”

 

Two days later, in New York City, Harrow found himself in a rundown Brooklyn tenement building, standing in a dark hallway in front of apartment 406.

He knocked and waited.

Nothing.

He was just getting ready to leave when the door swung slowly open and he found himself staring at a bleary-eyed young man wearing only a bed sheet wrapped around him like a sarong. The son of an Asian father and Caucasian mother, Billy Choi was an ex-New York cop and former Golden Gloves boxer. Harrow had run into the criminalist at various IAI functions, where they’d shared war stories over drinks, even teaming up for conference role-playing sessions.

“J.C.,” Choi said, rubbing the sand from his eyes, his normally swept-back jet-black hair a bird’s nest. From the lack of surprise, the guy might have seen Harrow five minutes ago.

“I come in?” Harrow asked.

Choi stepped out of the way, gestured with one hostly hand, and Harrow entered. To call the place a rathole would have been an insult to rats, the young man’s housecleaning skills limited to hiding the real mess beneath empty pizza boxes and dirty dishes.

“Is it helpful in your work, Billy?”

“Is what?”

“Living at a crime scene?”

“Pretty funny, J.C. When I wake up, I might laugh.”

“Mind a question?”

“Hit me.”

“Can you play nice with others?”

Shrugging, Choi said, “Not according to the NYPD. Gross insubordination, they call it.”

Harrow gave him a long hard look. “They also call it striking a superior officer.”

“Nothing superior about him,” Choi said.

“Oh?”

“Well, maybe. As in King Asshole.”

“Ah.”

“J.C., I just hit him. You’d’ve killed his ass.”

But Harrow merely looked at the young ex-officer. “No, I wouldn’t.”

Choi could not take Harrow’s gaze, and his eyes dropped to the floor. “Yeah, man, I know—I screwed up royal.”

“Question stands. Can you play nicely with others?”

“Does it matter?”

“Might. You watch my show?”

“I’ve seen it. Hey, nice gig, bro.”

“You see Friday’s show?”

“What’s today?”

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’” Harrow said, and brought him up to speed.

“I’m in,” Choi said.

Harrow shook his head. “Answer the question first.”

“I can play well with others,” Choi said, a kid forced to recite in front of the class.

“No bullshit, Billy—I’ve got the second chance you’ve been looking for. But if you screw me over, you won’t be able to land mall cop.”

“No bullshit, sensei,” Choi said, earnestly. “I promise ya, J.C. You give me the chance, I’ll be a right guy. No more screwin’ up.”

“And you would walk away from all this?” Harrow asked, gesturing around the dire apartment.

Billy grinned. “For you I would, J.C.”

Harrow was halfway down the crummy corridor of Billy’s building when his cell chirped. The caller ID said it was Pall.

“Michael,” Harrow said. “Good to hear from you.”

“Thought you should know,” Pall said, “I put my papers in this morning—end of the month’s my last day.”

“You heading for a beach, or coming aboard?”

“Send me an airline ticket. If it’s to Hawaii, I’ll head for the beach.”

“And if it’s to LA?”

“Then I’ll come work for you.”

 

In Casper, Wyoming, at the state crime lab, Harrow met up with the last candidate on his Dream Team list—Jenny Blake.

A petite blonde with blue eyes, Blake was painfully shy, and Harrow was well aware that her limited social skills could hamper her in the over-the-top world of television.

That limitation aside, the twenty-five-year-old had tremendous computer skills. As a teenager, she had used those skills to lure child predators to her foster parents’ house in Casper, Wyoming, before calling the local police. Her legend spread to the Wyoming state crime lab, where a friend had passed the story on to Harrow. After college, Blake joined that same Wyoming crime lab.

Of all the potential members of the team, the shy Blake would likely be the hardest to convince to join up.

Their mutual friend introduced the pair over coffee in the crime lab’s breakroom, then excused herself.

Harrow laid out his pitch with quiet intensity and what he felt was sincere eloquence…and Jenny Blake turned him down cold.

Her shyness made her tremendously uneasy about the whole television aspect of the job, but having been raised in foster care, she had as much empathy for a parent who had lost a child as she did for the children who were preyed upon by adults.

“Jenny, this isn’t about television,” he told her. “That’s only a means to an end. Thanks to the network, we can afford the best people in their fields—like you.”

“I’m happy here,” she said.

“I just need to borrow you for a while. Jenny, this person, these persons…”

“Unsub,” she said.

“Yes, this unknown subject killed my wife and my son. David had a great future in front of him, and it was taken from him, stolen from him, and…we believe this unsub has killed many others, young people like my son, children too. And this is my chance to stop him.”

“Here,” she said. She was handing him a napkin.

“What?”

“You’re crying.”

He didn’t realize. He dried his eyes.

“I’ll do it,” she said.